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A FOOL’S ERRAND 

MRS. VICTOR RICKARD 



A FOOL’S ERRAND 


BY 

MRS. VICTOR RICKARD S 

AUTHOR OF “A RECKLESS PURITAti ,” “CATHY ROSSITER,” 
“YOUNG MR. GIBBS,” “THE FIRE OF 
GREEN BOUGHS,” ETC. 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

'L- 






COPYRIGHT, I92I, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


S 


MAR 29 1922 ^ 




PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©GLA659384 




A FOOL’S ERRAND 


l 



A FOOL’S ERRAND 


CHAPTER I 

Quentin Dillon was back in London again, suf- 
fering from a sense of general flatness. There 
seemed to be no more ups and downs or tremendous 
moments left in life. The waves of war had re- 
ceded, and the feverish exaltations, the queerly in- 
consequent intricacies, and all the horror, as well 
as much of the zest of the past, had vanished quietly 
and was no longer there. 

If fete days “ask for to-morrow,” it is also true 
that misery, and the terrible intoxication of a long 
ordeal, makes its demand for something further, 
to stir the soul. Though he had once longed for 
a renewal of the old order of things, he did not 
know then that change had touched him with a 
strong, formative hand, and a gap wider than years 
alone separated the old Quentin Dillon from the man 
who stared out of the window of his club in Pall 
Mall. 

In some respects the war had treated him kindly, 
and his unusually striking good looks had been rein- 
forced by a much greater power and definiteness 
than had formerly been his. His thick dark hair 
was slightly streaked with grey, though he was lit- 
7 


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A FOOL’S ERRAND 


tie more than thirty, and his sensitive face and dark, 
audacious eyes had a hint of past suffering even in 
their defiant mirth. His slim figure, narrow-hipped 
and slender at the waist, was essentially graceful, 
and he held himself with the energy and happy eager- 
ness of one who is very much at home in the world. 

As he stood, looking out at the traffic of the street 
below, he was debating a question in his mind with 
a touch of real amusement. 

Like all other human beings, whichever their sex, 
who have strong personalities, Quentin was capable 
of making many enemies for himself. He had a 
quick temper which clothed itself in a smile, and was 
therefore doubly irritating to his foes, and he was 
usually successful. Success brings jealousy in its train, 
and Quentin accepted his laurels carelessly and wore 
them without any seriousness of manner. He was 
a law unto himself, and as the world is composed 
chiefly of people who desire to make laws for the 
rest of us, the law-givers regarded him as a rebel. 

It must not be concluded from this that Quentin 
had a score of crimes to his record, or that he defied 
decency and order; he merely refused to bow to cen- 
tral authority only when it did not impress him suf- 
ficiently. He went his way carelessly and said what 
he thought and did pretty much as he pleased, and 
there were very few who had, so to speak, called 
him out, and challenged him to single combat. Over 
and over again he had been badly reported upon by 
his seniors, and again and again he had fought his 
reports and scored a success, because in the fortunes 
of war his virtues had been those of the necessary 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 9 

kind. But dash and a defiant gallantry under ex- 
ceptional conditions no longer carried weight, and 
having affronted more than one of his senior officers 
at a time when his characteristic audacity was of 
value, Quentin lived to learn that elderly gentlemen 
can have long memories. 

Among the younger men in the regiment which 
he had joined in the war, Quentin was popular — 
with exceptions. Here again his power of creating 
a following had shown its disadvantages, and it is 
true that you may not be liked in excess of the ordi- 
nary and limited standard without being disliked by 
quite a lot of people of whose existence you need 
hardly be aware. 

What set him thinking of all this, or to be exact, 
what made him reflect upon the fact that he had a 
good reckoning of detractors, was the prospect of 
a regimental dinner taking place that night at the 
Grantham Hotel. He had received the usual noti- 
fication, and though he had not come to London in 
order to be present on the occasion, it came to his 
mind that he might turn up there. 

He wanted to see Stephen Lome, and Markham, 
and it would be sufficiently amusing to meet Wade, 
his late commanding officer, who had done his best 
* to break him before the last advance, when, by a 
curious turn of fate, it had fallen to Quentin to take 
the battalion through the heaviest fighting of that 
year to its triumphant objective, Wade having 
broken himself temporarily through over-much re- 
course to the courage he found in a brandy bottle. 
In Wade’s case the break had been capable of re- 


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pair, and he received all the necessary decorations 
to cover the cracks. 

There was not a hint of personal rancour in his 
mind as he thought of the past. Take it all round, 
there had been ample good fellowship and a fine 
camaraderie to give life a swing, and if some fellows 
were better than other fellows, the majority were 
altogether good. As for his own part in it all, he 
hardly threw it a thought. Anything he had done 
had been done in the way of duty, and the things 
he hadn’t done were numerous enough according to 
his reports. He was careless, lacked a sense of 
discipline, and had no head for detail. In fact, in 
the eyes of Colonel Wade his only virtue was that 
he “presented a smart appearance and rode well.” 
His eyes laughed as he thought of it. 

He was out of the army now, and they might say 
or think what they pleased, but the old friends would 
remain, and he wanted to see Lome and Markham. 

For the rest of it, there was always a tumultuous 
richness about life, and Quentin had a happy, un- 
perplexed outlook towards the future. He was 
sufficiently well off to be independent, and just now 
he was at a kind of pause, before a new beginning. 
What it would be he did not yet know, but what- 
ever it was he felt that he must grow interested, and 
he realised that there is significance in what seem to 
be the accidental combinations of the careless events 
of life. 

As he went out of the club, telling himself again 
that he hated London, he decided to spend an hour 
looking at some paintings in a small gallery off 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


ii 


Trafalgar Square, and, making his way there, he 
walked round the room slowly searching for a pic- 
ture of a garden, which he wanted to buy and send 
to his mother. 

The gallery proved a little disappointing. It 
showed him angels in moon-rainbows, soldiers in tin 
helmets, and women, whom he was glad to think he 
did not know nor have to meet, they looked so nervy 
and fantastic ; but there were no gardens. At length 
Quentin sat down on a velvet sofa, hopelessly tired, 
after the way of people who really know nothing 
about pictures and who yet go to look at them, and 
he turned a jaded attention towards the other human 
beings who made up the crowd. 

They were not attractive. It is nearly impossible 
for any crowd of people to be charming in the mass, 
and many of them looked very nearly as bored as 
Quentin felt himself to be. Just before he got up 
to leave in utter despair, he saw one face which re- 
warded him for having come there at all. 

The girl who attracted his attention was not in 
the least well dressed, and she was of a distinct and 
unusual type, her features attractively irregular, and 
her deep grey eyes just a little wistful. Her hair 
was fair, of the clear gold fairness which goes with 
a pale complexion, and among so many faces, vacant 
or wearing masks, hers was intrinsically real. She 
was being, in fact, herself, and she was quite alone. 
No elderly lady followed her, and no strangely- 
dressed young man talked art to her with the air 
of a critic. She was not one of a bunch, and so much 
did she impress Quentin with the solitariness of her 


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A FOOL’S ERRAND 

individuality that she stood out like a beacon on a 
dark hill. Her clothes were very simple, and he 
guessed that she was probably poor, or at least that 
she couldn’t afford the fashionable garments worn 
by some of the others. 

He longed to ask her what she thought of it all. 
Not what she thought of the paintings, which mat- 
tered very little, he felt, but of the men and women; 
what she thought of life and things in general, and 
whether she always went along, looking steadily 
around her with the wisdom of a grey-eyed Athene. 
She did think. You could tell that much, having 
seen her at all, and she was graceful and held herself 
well. 

It was unusual for Quentin to occupy his mind 
with women. He could have counted for you on 
the fingers of one hand how many he had ever been 
in the habit of giving any place in his thoughts. 
There was his mother and her sunny garden; there 
was his Aunt Alice, who had a moustache and whom 
he regarded as the best rider to hounds he knew, 
in spite of her advancing years. There was Cass- 
andra Austen, his cousin, known as Sandra, who was 
supposed by family tradition to be his future wife, 
and there had been Dolly Bernard. . . . Dolly Ber- 
nard had been a mistake. 

It was stupid actually to see a girl who looked 
exactly the person you might talk to for any length 
of time, yet because of the conventions, to be forced 
to let her drift out of reach, and Quentin wondered 
whether, in such a case, one acted upon impulse. He 
decided that perhaps it was better not to do this, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i3 

and having hesitated, the opportunity was irrevoc- 
ably lost, for the girl went through the door and 
out of the gallery, leaving nothing of herself be- 
hind except that queer, fluid impression which may 
subsequently mean either so much, or nothing what- 
ever, because we remember very little of faces just 
seen, however beautiful, when they have drifted out 
on the tides of life. 

The remainder of the day passed in a kaleido- 
scopic jumble, as days without any very definite 
event get themselves through in London, and Quen- 
tin found himself thinking again and again of the girl 
who had stirred him so unexpectedly. It was not her 
beauty, for she was less beautiful, strictly speaking, 
than a number of the other women he had watched 
without enthusiasm, but it was rather some special 
quality she possessed, and for the life of him he 
could not define it in words. The whole soul of her 
was in her expression and the grace of her carriage. 
He felt himself to be in the same mood with the 
poet who wrote of “lady, sweet and kind — was never 
face so pleased my mind,” who passed him by, and 
left him loving her. 

He laughed at himself, and thought of Sandra 
Austen. Sandra was indicated by the steady point- 
ing of the family finger, and she was his cousin. She 
was dark, clever and marvellously tactful. The 
elders and betters of the world loved her, and Quen- 
tin liked her very much, but never, never in all the 
years they had been friends, had he experienced a 
single thrill caused by the touch of her hand or the 
sound of her charming voice. 


14 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


And yet, marriage . . .? You would always know 
where you were with Sandra. . . . He grew vague 
and restless as he put on his mess uniform and 
frowned at his own dark face in the glass. It wasn’t 
sensible to think of a girl whom you had seen once 
and once only, and at last he fell back on the con- 
solation that Sandra might not really care for him 
in the way of love. The gentle pressure of family 
influence was constantly pushing them towards one 
another, and there were the memories into the bar- 
gain. He forgot all about both women by the time 
he arrived at the Grantham Hotel, and found that 
as usual he was after time. Punctuality was one of 
the things he had never learnt. 

Quentin Dillon was accustomed to popularity, and 
when he went into the room, which was crowded with 
men, he was at once aware of the queer electric 
forces that warn the sensitive mind of hostility, and 
he immediately collected himself for battle. One 
glance around the room told him that his best allies 
were absent. Lome and Markham were not there, 
and the predominance of power was all on the side 
of Wade, his late commanding officer, who only gave 
him the most cursory acknowledgment. There were 
a number of elderly officers, dating from the ancient 
past, to whom Wade had kow-towed as a subaltern 
and of whom Dillon knew next to nothing, and there 
were half a dozen younger men who owed Quentin 
a grudge or two. With these there was also Vivian 
Young, who had been his friend, but who now met 
him with a considerable lowering of the usual tem- 
perature, and the stiffness of a corpse was about the 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i5 

manner of Goldstein, who walked into the dining- 
room beside Quentin when dinner was announced, 
and he found himself seated between him and Young. 

Had he been the devil arriving at a Sunday-school 
treat he could not have felt himself a more ill-timed 
guest. His eyes grew bright, and when he spoke to 
Young his manner was dangerously polite. They 
were his enemies, and Young, for all his good quali- 
ties, was also a social barometer. If you were doing 
well he was friendly and even gushing, but if the 
wind set against you, Vivian became illusive and de- 
clined to commit himself, and it was very evident 
that Dillon was not a popular figure that night. 

The dinner wore on as such entertainments do, 
and the collection of former colonels talked of pre- 
vious times, old Standish doing his best to bring some 
bonhomie into the meeting. He even shouted in 
his husky voice at Quentin in his effort at producing 
a kindly atmosphere, but Wade, at the head of the 
table, did not intend that he should achieve any 
success. At the conclusion of dinner the moment 
came for speeches, and Wade stood up. He was a 
short, ineffective little man with indefinite features 
and the rather slovenly appearance of an elderly, 
self-indulgent field officer, but he spoke well and ex- 
pressed himself in carefully arranged words which 
had taken him a good deal of preparation. 

All down the long table the faces of the guests 
were turned towards him, and Quentin watched him 
with his blazing dark eyes full of secret amusement. 
Wade’s shortcomings had been so carefully glozed 


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over that it appeared as though he must have quite 
forgotten them himself. 

There was a good deal to be said, and the names 
of one after another of the regiment who had dis- 
tinguished themselves and died in the doing, were 
followed by the names of others who were still 
alive, and some of them present, and the cheering 
after each name was continuous and brought a thrill 
of the old glory back to the heart. Wade came to 
the most recent of the actions in which the regiment 
had distinguished itself, and an uneasy feeling took 
hold upon Quentin. His own part had been dra- 
matic enough to call for a strong personal testi- 
mony from his commanding officer, and to sit there 
and hear himself described as a hero by Wade 
would be damnably awkward. He had held the 
battalion together for a week of desperate fighting, 
and though he had never received so much as a men- 
tion in dispatches, every man in the regiment knew 
what he had done. 

It came back to him very clearly, the vision of icy 
weather under a sullen, hideous sky, the outpost 
where the battalion held a line of trenches in the 
thick of the heaviest fighting, the trails of smoke and 
the roaring of guns — the naked brutality of it all 
. . . sleepless days and nights, the tragic splendour 
of a hand to hand battle with death. And then he 
remembered Wade, who had not gone on with his 
men. ... His eyes travelled the length of the table 
and he wondered, as so many other men have won- 
dered, why it had all happened, and what it all 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


17 

meant, when the result was nothing but a return to 
just this. 

Wade was still speaking, and he looked straight 
before him. He wanted, he said, to remind them of 
a fight which was the last marked on their record. 

Quentin moved uneasily, and Vivian Young gave a 
quick glance in his direction. It was not the look of 
a man who knows that something pleasant is to 
happen, and there was a furtive sideways flicker in 
his eyes which should have warned Quentin, if he had 
been paying any attention to Captain Young, but, 
as it happened, he was not. 

Wade mentioned the names of Lome, and Mark- 
ham, and Young, and Dillon cheered with the rest. 
They had been magnificent, no one knew that better 
than he, in his temporary command of the dire situa- 
tion, and even the fact that the recognition came 
from such a poor creature could not lessen the great- 
ness of the praise due to them. And then, with a few 
well-turned phrases, Wade asked them to drink the 
health of those they honoured in memory, and of 
those who were still with them, to accept the tribute 
of their admiration and regard. 

In the warmth of good fellowship, Quentin had 
dealt Young a hearty smack on his shoulder at the 
mention of his name, and when it came to him in a 
quick flash of wonder, that his own was deliberately 
omitted from the list, he felt very much as though 
Wade had leaned forward and struck him in the 
face. 

Some one else was speaking now, and there was a 
little time to think. Dillon had a good command 


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of his features and outwardly he showed nothing. 
After all, what did it matter? Wade was only 
using the one tool he had to hit with, and it did not 
alter a single incident of the past. And yet it hurt. 
He did not want applause. Very few people whose 
actions are in the least spontaneous do stop to con- 
sider whether they are to receive the cheap payment 
of thanks, but for all that the deliberate omission 
had a jagged edge to it. Rather than give him his 
due, Wade had chosen to belittle the action itself, for 
much of it could not be spoken of without mention 
of Dillon’s part in leading the battalion. The small- 
ness of a mean personal dislike coupled with envy 
had conquered with wonderful completeness, and 
Wade had his allies and backers. 

It was the finest thing Quentin had ever done or 
was likely to do, and now it had been mauled and ill- 
handled by the little souls, and as he sat there out- 
wardly unconcerned and indifferent, he felt an in- 
ward sinking of his heart. 

Why should he mind? These things don’t mat- 
ter. Wade talking like a hack journalist, with his 
studied phrases, when he had eaten a good dinner 
and there were no bombs falling in the neighbour- 
hood, was enough to make angels laugh or weep — 
whichever way it takes an angel when he witnesses 
such sights. Young, crowned with Dillon’s laurels, 
and all these pompous old men, each with something 
to say, duller than the last. Yet he had known the 
real satisfaction of having carried through his work 
with perfection, he was sure of that. 

Yet one couldn’t escape unscathed. That was 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


19 

the only thing which mattered. Wade was pulling 
at his moustache and looking pleased. After a long 
time he had settled a score to his own satisfaction, 
and the joy of the ungenerous man was his. He felt 
that he had let Quentin down quite publicly, and 
Quentin remembered with a touch of rather cynical 
mirth, that when it lay in his hands to have thrown 
Wade to the dogs, he had refrained. The war was 
over then, and Wade couldn’t very well mess things 
up in any future actions. 

No, it didn’t matter what they did to him. Car- 
ruthers who had fought beside him was dead, and 
most of the best fellows were dead. The survivors 
. . . it made Dillon want to laugh once more, as 
he considered them. 

Kemp was on his legs now, barking like an angry 
terrier about some grievance of his own. He was 
always angry with everyone, and had a bad word for 
everyone, whether he called him friend or foe, so 
it didn’t much matter which you were. For a mo- 
ment Dillon was consciously helpless, and again he 
stood away from his personal point of view with 
an effort. 

As the night wore on and the dinner came to its 
end, Quentin decided that so far as he was con- 
cerned the situation had taught him a lesson. He 
had been at a loose end and was anxious to find 
something new to do, and the regimental dinner 
made him realise that he wanted more than that. 
He wanted to forget all about them — you couldn’t 
fight Wade and his fellows, and if you allowed 
yourself to be angry with them, it only meant that 


20 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


you acknowledged that they had enough power to 
irritate. He might let Wade affect him like a mos- 
quito bite, but that was ridiculous. Wade’s own 
resentment against Dillon was active enough to 
be as unpleasant for himself as an attack of small- 
pox, and as they walked out of the dining-room it 
was certainly true that Dillon’s tall figure and easy 
air of perfect nonchalance made the contrast between 
them cruelly striking. Nature was on the side of 
Quentin, and she seemed to be proclaiming the fact 
as he stood in the centre of the room talking to a 
group of men who were uneasily aware that some- 
thing rather ill-bred and unsporting had been done 
under their very noses. 

Even if they did not altogether approve of Dillon, 
they admitted his power, and no one was quite sure 
what to do next. Ought they to speak to him, and 
say that they felt the affront, or should they ignore 
it? The line Wade had taken put them in a difficulty. 

“I think you should have been named, Dillon,” 
old Colonel Grant said kindly, for he was the 
most well-intentioned of men. “All our gallant fel- 
lows. . . 

“Surely not, sir,” Quentin laughed. “There wasn’t 
time for giving special pats on the head to so many 
of us. I did nothing!” 

Fisher, who had been on the staff, and was one 
constellation of decorations, wandered up and joined 
them. “I thought you’d done something special,” he 
said wearily. “Oh, well, I suppose there were so 
many recommendations. . . 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


21 


“I expect so.” Dillon turned away. Someone 
wanted him to play bridge. 

Even then he could not entirely quench the sharp 
little flame of vexation. Young was waiting about 
near Wade like a well-trained dog, wagging his tail 
and jumping up to be patted; Young, who had re- 
ceived a sharp dose of truth from Quentin when 
for one fatal moment his nerves had broken. 

It was all over now. The weary old war was over, 
and what you had done or failed to do was for- 
gotten. The world had swept on over the graves 
and the scars, and they were doing their best to 
get back into grooves and grow a nice fresh crop of 
small hates and personal rancours, the seeds of 
which had been carefully gathered and preserved. 
Let them. It was the last time Quentin intended to 
permit them the chance of ever ruffling the surface 
of his mind. 

“The former things had passed away,” it was 
true, and in the blank which followed nothing new 
had yet come to take their place. 

Let the door close finally and shut them out from 
each other. He had no further part with them, and 
never had really belonged to the old school. They 
wanted to get everything back to a place they 
described as “the old footing,” and even had they 
wished him to join them there, Dillon knew it to be 
no place for the likes of him. 

He left with a sense of relief. It was so well to 
be done with them, when you looked at it squarely. 
Lome and Markham were of a different kind, and 
those others who would never come back again. 


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A FOOL’S ERRAND 


These wanted their world. Let them have it; and 
what a blessing to be able to say of them that one 
need never stifle yawns in their company again, or 
listen to the latest misdeeds of this one or that 
He left them gladly, unconscious for his part that 
he was to be turned into a kind of legend of dark- 
ness, a battle ground where subsequently one or 
two upheld him, and a lingering and even attrac- 
tive memory to those very few who had really known 
and cared for him. He had been angry with them, 
but it was not Dillon’s way to remain angry. He 
only laughed and went on to the next stage, be- 
cause fate had blessed him in that he was of those 
for whom there is always a next stage. 


CHAPTER II 


Sandra Austen lived with her father, a retired 
general, in a house on the Surrey Downs, about an 
hour’s run from London. Suburbs had encroached 
around it, reaching out red bricks and stucco fingers 
to grasp the chalky white and willow green of the 
country, but Foxhurst had retained its own isolation 
in spite of this. It stood away from the roads that 
hummed with motor traffic, and General Austen had 
refused all offers to buy the patch of wild wood at 
the back and the stretch of gorse-grown upland be- 
yond, so Sandra maintained that they still lived in 
the country. 

It was a pleasant house to go to, and Quentin felt 
a fresh warmth of satisfaction as he walked up the 
steep hill and through the avenue gate, between 
rhododendron borders in full blossom. Sandra had 
a way of softening the hard edges of life and putting 
you on good terms with yourself, so that a visit to 
her always held much consolation, and he had 
awakened to a fresh feeling of annoyance when he 
remembered the occurrence of the evening before. 
He had passed through a mental crisis which marked 
a parting of the ways, and in retrospect he wondered 
why he had not said something very telling, or scored 
on Wade before he left the Grantham Hotel. 

The brightness of the day and the singing of many 
23 


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A FOOL’S ERRAND 


birds aroused him from angry meditations, and he 
walked through the house without ringing, and on 
to the green lawn outside the drawing-room win- 
dows. General Austen was likely to be out, and 
Quentin sincerely hoped that he might be. He was a 
fussy, well preserved old gentleman, who had, in for- 
mer times, driven his staff frantic, and who now con- 
centrated upon keeping his figure and attending 
vestry meetings. He looked like an aristocratic 
dancing master, and he was, Dillon thought, the most 
complete bore in England. Still, it occupied him to 
hunt the Vicar on his bicycle, and he sat on various 
committees and wasted time in a number of busy 
ways. 

Sandra was in the garden planting out little seed- 
lings from a box in a shady corner, and she looked 
up under a rush hat, her face full of greeting and her 
strong, white teeth showing in a gay smile of wel- 
come. She pulled off her leather gloves and held out 
her hand to her cousin, her narrow, clever eyes 
watching him steadily. It occurred to her at once 
that Quentin had a “blackdog” on his shoulder, and 
she wondered what the cause of it might be. He 
seemed always to drown people with the tremendous 
depth of his own glance, and she swam into it for a 
second and then looked at the twist of his mouth. 

“Shall we go into the wood?” she asked, “or shall 
we have the deck chairs out on to the lawn?” 

“The wood,” he said, as they turned up the 
narrow path to where a sheet of bluebells painted 
the whole undergrowth below the shining of the 
spring-clothed trees. “I’ve come here to be smoothed 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


25 

down, Sandra. My self-contentment has been tam- 
pered with and it must be put in order again.” 

“Who has been throwing stones at you?” she 
asked, as they came to a broader path which led to 
the edge of the little wood, where a gate and a white 
painted seat separated them from the common. 
Having reached it she sat down, prepared to listen, 
and Quentin flung himself on the grass at her feet. 

“A silly old man, called Wade, of whom I have 
the very lowest opinion,” Dillon said, lighting a 
cigarette. “It’s funny, isn’t it, Sand, that even if one 
doesn’t like people oneself, one is illogical enough 
to resent it if they don’t like you?” 

“Colonel Wade was commanding your battalion.” 

“So it is said,” Quentin laughed. “But I mustn’t 
be ill-natured. Anyhow, I went to the regimental 
dinner last night, and it was made plain to me that I 
was a wash-out. I’ll be quite honest over this. I 
know that I’d done pretty well in that last show, 
and though I don’t care a kick about ribbons and 
mentions I would have appreciated a kind word.” 

“They never did like you much, Quentin,” she 
said reflectively. “You’re not in the least the kind 
of man whom people like, exactly. They either go 
to greater lengths, or they hate the sight of you.” 

“I don’t mind,” he closed his eyes lazily. “It’s 
all over now. What I want to do is to find some- 
thing else to amuse myself with. I’m waiting for a 
revelation.” 

Sandra smiled at his long graceful figure. She 
had cared so much for him for years that it was 


2 6 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


strange to think that she could care any more, and yet 
just then she felt that she did. 

“Anything else?” she asked. 

Dillon sat up quickly. “Why, yes,” he said. “I 
believe I’ve fallen in love. Here’s romance for you, 
Sandra. I went to a picture gallery, and I saw a girl 
there who is like. . . . Now, what is she like?” 

“Yes?” Sandra’s voice was perfectly steady, and 
though her hands were clasped very tightly round 
her knees she did not alter her position. 

“She had a straight nose and rather a crooked 
mouth, and was pale and very fair like la belle dame, 
only I am sure she was merciful. She was looking 
at the pictures in the gallery, and I don’t believe she 
liked them any better than I did.” 

“And did you pick up her catalogue and that sort 
of thing?” Sandra asked. 

“No. I did nothing yesterday. It was a bad day. 
In the end she ‘went her unremembering way,’ and 
I shall never see her any more.” 

The words were light enough as he spoke them, 
but there was a look in his eyes which contradicted 
what he said. As Sandra made no reply, he talked 
on. “I wonder why I tell you all this. Do you 
know what I was thinking of doing when I came 
down here ?” 

“How could anyone know?” she asked. “My 
dear Quentin, don’t expect the impossible.” 

“I wondered — and I came to ask you to tell me — 
whether A and B, who have been friends for years 
and know all each other’s faults — no, I don’t think 
that’s the way to put it. I mean, A is faultless and 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


27 

B isn’t, but they both know all this quite well; would 

it be wise if they <” He leaned his chin on his 

hands and looked up at her. “You wouldn’t think 
of marrying me, would you, Sandra?” 

The face under the rush hat grew very pale, and 
Cassandra Austen shivered a little, though the day 
was gloriously warm and bright. She glanced down 
at his face and studied it for a second. 

“No,” she said, shaking her small, well-shaped 
head. “I wouldn’t do that, Quentin.” 

“I wonder why. Is it because you don’t think of 
me that way?” 

“Oh, I can’t explain.” She bent forward and a 
slight flush touched her pallor. “Perhaps I want 
something more romantic. It would be very right- 
eous and dull and respectable, wouldn’t it? You 
aren’t the only living romanticist.” 

“I know we aren’t in love in the accepted sense,” 
he went on, frowning slightly, “but there’s a great 
deal besides that, Sand, and there’s no one else I 
ever shall feel the same towards in heaps of ways. 
It’s different for you, I can see that, and I put it 
as a proposition, with all the advantages on my own 
side.” 

Sandra got up quickly. “I once made a vow,” 
she said, as they walked on towards the strip of 
common which blazed golden under the midday sun, 
“that nothing that might happen should ever dis- 
turb our friendship. Marriage under such condi- 
tions would ruin it.” 

Dillon’s thoughts transported him for a second 
into the picture gallery again. He returned to the 


28 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


moment when he saw the face of the “lady sweet 
and kind,” and though he mocked at himself for his 
very boyishness, he wondered whether Sandra was 
right in saying that friendship was no true basis for 
marriage. 

“You spoke just now,” Sandra went on, “of some- 
one you had seen only yesterday, and though you 
pretended it was a joke, I know you so well that I 
can guess that rather more of you than your thoughts 
ran after her. That kind of thing wouldn’t do.” 

“She may have a dozen husbands already, and in 
any case I shall never see her again. Don’t be silly, 
Sand.” He took her elbow as he walked beside 
her. “I’m doing this all wrong. I’m certain that I 
ought not to argue with you. I ought to talk to 
you of love. This vow of yours ” 

“Means a great deal to me,” she interrupted him 
quickly. “You are trying to persuade yourself — 
and me,” she added, after a hardly perceptible pause, 
“to accept the substance for the shadow, and 
shadows are all that really matter, if you understand 
life.” 

“You can’t care about it. You won’t risk it?” He 
looked at her earnestly. She was very dear to him, 
and in this pause where he stood he had sincerely 
hoped that she might find it in her heart to care. 
But he was almost certain she did not love him, and 
he could not find a single argument to persuade her 
against her will. What he had to offer was too 
lame and devoid of real passion to make him urgent. 

“You aren’t thinking of Dolly?” he asked im- 
pulsively. “That’s done and finished with.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


29 

“I wasn’t thinking of Dolly. I was thinking of 
myself.” 

She had gone a little in advance of him and stood 
on a rise of ground against the aching blue of a sky 
where great clouds sailed past. In Dillon’s eyes 
she seemed wonderfully free, with the freedom of 
complete escape from circumstances, standing away 
above him on her upland, with her eyes raised to 
the sky. 

“Tell me more about last night,” she said quietly. 
“You were hurt rather badly, weren’t you?” 

“Come now, Sand,” he said, catching her waist, 
“that isn’t fair. You think I am out for consolation.” 

“And if I do, I’m not so very far wrong,” she 
smiled. “It isn’t decreed that you and I shall watch 
each other grow elderly and fat, or elderly and 
thin.” She put her hand on his arm. “Now swear 
to me that, whatever happens, we shall always be 
friends, always.” She spoke with great earnestness 
and Quentin held her hand in his and swore, and she 
seemed satisfied, for she lost a little of the strained 
look around her mouth, and they talked of other 
things as they walked back to the house together. 

General Austen required the whole conversation 
to himself during luncheon. He had been as busy as 
usual and was drafting a letter to the Home Secre- 
tary, who must have become well used to his awful 
lucidity, which covered pages, and was divided into 
sections. He had taken it for granted for some years 
that Cassandra would marry Quentin, and after he 
had dragged his unwilling nephew to his sanctum and 
talked statistics to him for half an hour, standing on 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


30 

the hearth-rug and glancing at his own reflection in 
a mirror opposite, he felt his carefully-trained mous- 
tache and remarked suddenly that he hoped that 
Quentin hadn’t come there to expedite matters. 

“I can’t really get on without Sandra at present,” 
he said fretfully, his hands feeling the line of his 
waist. “I don’t know how I should replace her.” 

Quentin looked up. “So far as I am concerned,” 
he said, “there’s no question of my disarranging 
your plans, Uncle Arthur. Sandra has refused to 
marry me.” 

General Austen started dramatically. “Refused 
you? My dear boy — I hardly know what to say. 
You see, it’s been taken for granted more or 
less ” 

“It doesn’t do to take anything for granted, 
especially if it’s Sandra,” Dillon said slowly. “That 
is, I think, where we all made a mistake.” 

General Austen made a tour of the room, hum- 
ming to himself abstractedly, and ejaculating, 

“Well!” “Who would have thou ” “This 

is surpris ” Eventually he came to a halt be- 

fore Quentin. “Did she give you any reason?” 

“Only that she didn’t want to marry me.” 

“I thought I understood women,” the General 
said in a voice of some alarm, “but this — why, it 
shows me that I have made a mistake.” The idea 
of ever having made a mistake was so foreign and at 
the same time so unpleasant to his mind that he 
looked quite ill. 

The room was on the north side of the house, and 
there was a cold, greenish light in it which made 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


3i 

General Austen look far less youthful than he usually 
did, and he grasped his letter to the Home Secre- 
tary in his hand. It did not occur to him to ask 
Quentin what his own feelings were, for he was not 
an object for philanthropy, and as for Sandra, the 
idea of a vague and nearly eternal engagement was 
exactly what he approved of. Everyone of the 
family had said it was “suitable,” and now all the 
carefully-built structure was tumbling around his 
ears. 

“What do you intend to do?” he asked, still ob- 
viously upset and irritated. 

“I am going down to Dawn to-morrow, and after 
that — well, I hardly have any plans.” 

Quentin left Foxhurst by a late afternoon train, 
when the sunlight was painting crimson splashes on 
walls and houses and giving the trees a deep, strong 
note of beautiful colour. Sandra came to see him oil, 
and up to the moment when she stood on the plat- 
form, waving her hand to him in farewell, she was 
cheerful, and just as he had always known her. It 
was only when he had gone, and the last wisp of 
sunlit smoke from the train vanished like a wraith 
in the evening air, that her face grew pinched and 
sad, and her eyes clouded with pent-up misery. 

“It wouldn’t have been any use,” she said to her- 
self over and over again, for she knew, out of her 
own wisdom, the truth which lies behind the words, 
“From him shall be taken away even that which 
he seemeth to have.” 

“I don’t think that Bretherton’s cutter is what he 
used to be,” her father said petulantly as he joined 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


32 

her in the drawing-room before dinner. “This coat 
doesn’t sit as well as the last I had from him. I 
shall warn him that if he can’t do better I must 
change my tailor.” 

She patted and smoothed the offending wrinkle, 
more as though he was a little boy than an old man 
who refused to grow any older, and in the end she 
pacified him, and he stiffened his shoulders and held 
himself very erect. And then Sandra wondered 
whether anything would ever matter very much to 
her again, for it is hard indeed to have the heart’s 
desire offered to the longing heart, and to see the 
wisdom of refusal. Almost the only cynical mercy 
left in the whole matter was the ridiculous fact that 
Quentin never guessed that she had deliberately 
broken her own heart. 

:{« ijc ijf 

Quentin went back to London quite uncomforted. 
He was human enough to add Sandra’s gentle re- 
fusal of his half-hearted suggestion to the pile of 
failures which he was collecting. She had stuck to 
friendship, but for the moment friendship seemed 
abominably cold and comfortless. He had offered 
her the very thing no woman with a spark of reality 
in her would be expected to accept, and yet he would 
have made her happy — or so he tried to think. Rest- 
lessness had driven him to grasp at the calm which 
was Sandra’s finest quality, and he had come to her 
like a hungry beggar to plead for “alms for ob- 
livion.” He hated himself as he thought of it. He 
wanted to forget so much. There had been too much 
of fierce life thrust into a limited time, and now there 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


33 

was iar too little. He couldn’t find solace in racing 
or taking up the dropped threads, and he admitted 
to himself that he had tried to throw Sandra into the 
gap, and she had very properly refused. He made 
up his mind to go down to Dawn to see his mother 
before he allowed himself to gamble with other 
people’s lives again. 

sj« >fs ijc ifc t{: 

The next day found him by evening in the house 
which he had known since he was a little boy. Dawn 
stood on the summit of Sleepers Hill, outside Grant- 
chester, and below it there spread a wide view of 
wooded valley and the distant, shining horizon of the 
sea. The gardens which enclosed the house were ex- 
quisitely beautiful, and Ruskin’s theory that flowers 
only flourish rightly in the garden of someone who 
loves them, was manifested in the wonderful glory 
of colour and scent which rioted everywhere on the 
terraces and in deep borders, and in the clinging 
mantles of blossom and honey perfume that clothed 
the soft red brick walls of Dawn, to the eaves of the 
house. Jeanne Austen, Quentin’s mother, was 
French, and for all her years in England she had 
never belonged in any real sense to the country of 
her adoption. 

She was sitting in the garden when Quentin joined 
her, and he wondered again at her look of unim- 
paired vitality and youth. Her figure showed no 
sign of age, and she was endowed with an eternal 
and upspringing courage towards life. You knew 
that Jeanne Austen would turn and smile at you as 
she stepped into the grave. Her dark eyes were 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


34 

very like his own, and she greeted him with outheld 
hands, searching his face before she kissed him, and 
he sat down on a white wicker chair beside her. 

All her life men and women had loved his mother, 
and she had the half-regal touch of assurance which 
only belongs to women who have been conquerors 
wherever they went. She even treated her son with 
a certain gracious coquetry which was very precious 
to him, as she flashed a smile at him. 

“Does your Uncle Arthur still wear a silk hat on 
Sunday?” she said. “As a young man, he was al- 
ways ridiculously well dressed.” 

“I am sure he does,” Quentin agreed. “I wasn’t 
there for long.” 

Mrs. Austen looked at the deep shadows of the 
purple distance. The elms at the far end of the 
garden were beautiful with early green, the sky be- 
hind them was the colour of a perfect turquoise, and 
the evening was full of pure, pale sunlight. “And 
Sandra, the ever excellent and admirable Sandra?” 

“Sandra is very well — and very wise.” 

“Ah !” She glanced at him again, with the little 
provocative smile in her eyes. “How has she shown 
her wisdom in this instance?” 

“By refusing to marry me.” Quentin thought he 
might as well tell her at once and get it over. He 
half expected an angry outburst from his mother, 
who certainly rated him at something very much 
above his real value. “If that doesn’t show how 
sensible she is, I don’t know what would.” 

For a moment Mrs. Austen said nothing, and then 
she spoke of something quite different. “There are 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


35 

certain times in every life which has any incident in 
it,” she said, with her slight French inflection more 
marked than usual, “when the best of us can only 
turn to something outside ourselves, some take to 
drink, and others marry. It is when a sense of final- 
ity and the shortening of the years attacks us. I 
am glad that Sandra is sensible. The family wanted 
you to marry her, but I have never been one of the 
family. If you had loved her . . .” She looked 
at him with her bright, dark eyes, “but then you did 
not, and you aren’t very old yet, my son.” 

“I don’t know what I shall do,” he replied; “a 
gap is a bad thing. I’m not a good, plain man, 
mother, and just now I’m as sick as a duck in a 
thunderstorm. I want consolation.” 

Jeanne Austen shook her head and laughed. “For 
how long?” she asked. “You son of Eve, I don’t 
build upon your reformation. You will go on ‘climb- 
ing up the ever-climbing waves,’ long after you have 
erected a monument to me in the church down there.” 

“I have no ideal, and no ideas,” he said, returning 
her smile, “and little people can make me angry. 
What is to be my cure? You know so much about 
life that I feel sure you can tell me this.” 

She held his hand between her slender, well-shaped 
hands, and after a time she spoke again. 

“I think you must go away,” she said a little sadly. 
“Yes, Quentin, I think so. If you slide into the 
gap it will turn into a groove and stifle you, and if 
you make a bridge out of someone else’s soul it will 
mean disaster for both of you; so you must jump 
over it and get to the other side.” 


36 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Where to?” he asked, without enthusiasm. 

“I can’t tell you that. But it’s a good thing to go 
right away.” 

They talked of it again at dinner that night, by 
the light of the tall candles in the candelabra, and 
Quentin decided to make an act of faith. He would 
go, and the only thing which he did not tell his 
mother during the week he spent at Dawn was the 
broken episode of “the lady sweet and kind,” and yet 
it was of her that he thought most of all as he lived 
there, eating out his heart in the wonderful summer 
days that were so cruelly barren even with all their 
flowering glory. 


CHAPTER III 


Quentin went back to London, still determined to 
go away from England, vague as to where he wished 
to be, but less discontented with life. 

He avoided all the places which he knew, and did 
not go near his club. He wanted to get free from 
the old order of things at once, and with the idea of 
arriving more completely at his end, he took a room 
in an unsavoury looking commercial hotel near Pad- 
dington Station. His room was comfortable though 
dingy, and he came in rather late the first evening 
of his arrival and sat down at a small table in the 
dining-room. It was the last place where he was 
likely to meet anyone he had ever known before, and 
he had not been sitting there very long when a man 
came through the swing-doors and took the empty 
chair opposite to him. 

The new-comer was an ugly-looking devil, with a 
blotched face, and every indication that he had been 
drinking, though he was not exactly drunk. His 
clothes were serviceable but untidy and stained, and 
his figure was thick-set and ungainly. Dillon guessed 
that he might be a commercial traveller out of a job, 
or some kind of commission agent, and he looked as 
though under favourable conditions he might be 
cheerful in his way. 

It was impossible to probe into his past, and all 
37 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


38 

you could tell was that it was probably in no cleaner 
or better condition than the man himself. At that 
moment he appeared intensely depressed and out of 
sorts, for he blew long sighs from between his 
pursed lips, and Quentin laughed inwardly, wonder- 
ing whether he was in love, or what the reason of 
his chagrin could be. 

As he considered the bulky creature, the waiter 
who attended at the table where they sat came up 
with the sprightly step of his kind, and said in wel- 
coming accents, “Good evening, Mr. Dillon.” 

At the sound of his own name Quentin looked up 
in some surprise, and to his further astonishment, 
both he and the corpulent man who sat opposite re- 
plied together to the polite salutation, and then their 
eyes met, and Dillon laughed aloud. 

“We seem to have the same name,” he said in his 
friendly way; “rather an unusual coincidence, as the 
name has the virtue or the defect of being uncom- 
mon.” His namesake thrust his thumbs into his 
waistcoat pockets and tilted back his chair, chewing 
a tooth-pick with an air of reflection. 

“My name,” he said, “Christian and sur, is Wil- 
liam Dillon. It’s a good name.” 

“And mine,” Dillon grew more and more amused, 
“is Quentin Dillon.” He ordered a bottle of wine. 
“I think that we might celebrate the meeting. It’s 
the kind of thing that only happens once in a hun- 
dred years.” 

The man opposite to him gave a huge gusty laugh. 
His depression had been stirred and broken up for 
a moment, and he was enjoying the joke. “Well, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


39 

brother,” he said with half-insolent familiarity, “I’ll 
drink to you. I hope you’ve better luck with your 
little lot than I’ve had. I was born unlucky.” He 
grew gloomy again. “Now you give me the im- 
pression of being a man with a permanent address. 
Born permanent, as it were. Some are like that. 
It’s the same with women. Some women marry and 
stick.” 

“Are you married?” Quentin asked. He was not 
so much interested in the past of William Dillon, as 
in the amusement it afforded him to make the man 
talk. William Dillon was a dreadful person and 
overflowed his outlines lamentably; he was not really 
clean, and there was something about him which 
made one doubt his honesty. 

“Married? Me? Not much,” he replied. “And 
you ? Not ? I thought you weren’t ; you haven’t the 
look of it. Both of us gay bachelors.” He wagged 
his head. “There’s another coincidence for you.” 

The waiter uncorked the bottle of wine and put it 
on the table and slipped away again. 

“I’m well known here,” William Dillon went on, 
not without pride in the fact. “When I’m able to 
afford it I like style and comfort. You can get both 
here without ostentation. If there’s any ostentation 
I clear out — >that’s what I do. None of your lordly 
sort for me. I like honest comfort and a place where 
they give you clean sheets. You can count on that 
in this caboose.” 

“I certainly hope so,” Quentin said. “Are you 
staying for long?” 

Once more the depression of his earlier mood re- 


40 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


turned upon William Dillon, and he drank in hearty 
gulps before he made any answer. “Wish to God 
I were,” he said, and he banged the table with his 
clenched fist. “Wish it to God, I do,” and he 
groaned with a kind of rage. “How is it that some 
fellows get all the luck? I’ve never had a day with- 
out trouble, and it’s little blame to me that I drink 
a glass too much now and then. I defy you to criti- 
cise me.” 

“I wasn’t criticising you,” Quentin said, stifling 
his desire to laugh aloud. To regard the shabby 
hotel as the summit of all things good was a new 
idea to him, and the flabby creature was really miser- 
able, for his eyes were full of weak tears. “I 
shouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.” 

“All right,” William Dillon said with a hint of re- 
tort in his voice. “And as to yourself. What are 
you out for?” 

“I was thinking of going abroad,” Quentin said, 
filling his odd acquaintance’s glass again. 

“That’s a wide address.” Dillon the second 
studied him and moistened his lips. “Perhaps you’re 
not so solvent as you look? London’s full of fellers 
who live God knows how. I can’t do it,” he spoke 
angrily. “Look here now, if I go into a shop and 
ask for a diamond tiara on credit, what’d I get for 
my pains? It would be, ‘out you get,’ and a few com- 
pliments thrown in. You would find it difierent.” 

“I haven’t tried it.” 

“No, I didn’t say you had; but I said that if you 
did, you’d not have to produce your bona fides . It’s 
your tailor you have to thank.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


4i 

“I have to do more than thank him,” Dillon said 
with a laugh; “but aren’t you rather glad to be 
settled in life ?” 

William Dillon nibbled at a dry biscuit. “Would 
you like to stand me a brandy?” he asked. “Wine 
is all very well, but it’s cold stuff. If I had a brandy 
I’d feel better.” 

Quentin agreed cheerfully. He had nothing to 
do with the rest of the evening, and his namesake 
was sufficiently amusing to pass the time. He also 
felt a little interested in the man, and the brandy 
bottle was put on the table at his suggestion, in case 
Mr. Dillon felt that he could manage more than one. 

As he had expected, the warmth of the drink un- 
loosed the tongue of William Dillon, and he began 
to unfold a tale of tribulation and persecution. All 
manner of people had persecuted him. Jews and 
members of the Salvation Army, policemen and mer- 
chants rushed in a chaotic jumble across the horizon 
of his mind, all bent upon his downfall, and there 
was a hint of some period which had been spent in 
deep seclusion, and to which he alluded bitterly. 

He had been on his beam ends only a short while 
back, and then an opportunity had arisen for a fresh 
start. 

A man of the name of Radstock wanted a partner, 
and through the good offices of a friend Dillon had 
succeeded in getting the post. It was taking him to 
Rangoon, and he had a natural hatred of all Eastern 
ports. “I know I shall die if I go there. There was 
Sappy Hammond, a feller I knew, and he went East 
and hopped it — snuffed out in a month. And there 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


42 

was poor little Fish, Fishy Fish we used to call him, 
and the very same thing happened to him. It’s on 
my mind like a ruddy pall, and whenever I think of 
it I go cold all over.” 

“What are you going to do when you get there?” 
Dillon asked, wondering what possible post the man 
with whom he was talking could undertake. Rad- 
stock had not seen him and was buying a pig in a 
poke, but the mutual friend was sufficiently myste- 
rious in his choice. 

“What am I going to do?” he asked. “Why help 
him with his business. He is a trader.” William 
Dillon grew suddenly reticent. “It’s a great asset 
to have a white man. Prestige, you understand. 
They can get plenty of caffy o’lay, but what they 
want is the real thing. Like myself.” 

“Rather a chance for you,” Dillon said, con- 
solingly. “When do you start?” 

“To-morrow,” William replied miserably. “Don’t 
remind me of it. You seem such a good feller that 
you’ll understand when I say that I want to forget.” 

“But anyhow it will make you feel permanent,” 
Dillon suggested, since his namesake appeared to 
lay so much stress on the idea of having a settled 
address. “There’s always that consolation.” 

“Permanent, I should rather think so,” William 
Dillon replied, “with a nastly little headstone to keep 
me down. There’s certainly permanence in that.” 

An idea had begun to form itself dimly in the mind 
of Quentin Dillon. It was so fantastic and without 
any of the reasoned qualities which recommend new 
ideas to the majority of mankind, that he hesitated 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


43 

to express his mind at once and dallied with the 
thought, offering William Dillon another drink which 
he accepted without the vulgar necessity of being 
pressed. 

“Is the work commercial?” Quentin asked. 

“Commercial?” William Dillon sipped lovingly 
at his glass. “Oh, no ! Oh, no ! I’m not a business 
man. I told you they want a cachay , and my friend 
who put me in the way of it said that Radstock man- 
aged the finances himself. He said” — the extra 
brandy was doing its work — “that all I need do was 
to live at the Palm Hotel on the docks — it’s a 
smart, flash sort of place, dress myself well, and 
make friends with fellers who want company and 
fun and all that sort of thing, and who, at the same 
time, are out for trade. Radstock trades every- 
thing, and it’s part of his business to entertain and 
make things go. Knowing that I am a cheery sort 
of feller my friend singled me out, and beggars can’t 
be choosers in this ruddy old world,” 

Dillon lighted a cigarette and looked down at the 
table cloth, following the pattern with an abstracted 
finger. He had meditated the usual voyage to the 
East, which, after all, would only change externals. 
If he made new friends they would hardly be dis- 
tinguishable from the old, and nothing in particular 
called to him from the unknown. It is extremely 
difficult to step outside the boundaries of “that state 
in life to which it has pleased God to call you,” and 
there had not been any real uplifting of his heart as 
he looked forward to the change. Here, opposite to 
him at the table, there sat a man from whom he 


A FOOL'S ERRAND 


44 

could borrow all the necessary variety that was lack- 
ing in the other scheme. He could square William 
Dillon quite easily, as he was wholly averse to his 
own fate, selected for him by the mutual friend. 
Quentin was pretty sure that the job which awaited 
William Dillon was that of a decoy of some kind, 
and his interest intensified, like a tightened violin 
string, and he could feel a strong thrill of quicken- 
ing interest. 

Dillon was not in the habit of looking before and 
after, and hardly had the notion crystallised in his 
mind before he immediately began to consider it as 
something practicable and settled. He looked again 
at the shabby creature who had begun to sing in 
a husky voice of unutterable despair, “Go where 
glory waits thee," in a low lamenting tone, several 
notes flat. He was deeply affected by his own music, 
and looked hopelessly mournful. Had he been cele- 
brating his own death or serenading his ashes he 
could not have looked a more pathetic and deplor- 
able figure. 

“Tell me more about Radstock," Dillon said, in- 
terrupting the dirge. 

“How can I tell you?" the heavy man snapped 
suddenly. “Don’t you understand that I’ve never 
seen him. I have had a decentish letter — you can 
always tell a gentleman’s handwriting as it’s usually 
so bad — and a cheque for my passage money. I’m to 
sail on the Thebaw’s Queen to-morrow, from Lon- 
don Docks, and he’s to meet me at Rangoon — and — 
oh yes, I’m to keep an eye on a niece of his wife’s, 
Miss Keith, who is also going out by the same 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


45 

damned ship. I don’t want her.” William Dillon 
grew truculent. “What’d I want her for? Just 
my luck to get stuck with that kind of nursery-maid’s 
stunt.” 

Quentin reflected again. Miss Keith might be a 
very distinct drawback to his own scheme. If she 
inherited what he suspected to be the family tradi- 
tion, she was, as likely as not, just the type he most 
actively desired to avoid, but he knew that she would 
have to be an extremely clever young lady if she 
interfered with him to any real extent. In any case, 
if he was to step into William Dillon’s chair and 
take his hand at the game, he would have to accept 
Miss Keith as well, while declining inwardly to hold 
himself responsible for her. 

“Listen,” he said, putting his hand on William 
Dillon’s arm as he was about to fill his glass again, 
“I’ll make you a firm offer, Dillon. You and I have 
the same names. You don’t want to go East, I do. 
What will you take for your job, and the ticket out?” 

Dillon the second stared and gasped. His face 
grew a hot-red and he seemed unable to speak, for 
he swallowed and gulped and made no coherent 
sound. “What are you saying?” he asked at last. 
“Are you having me on? Are you meaning it? It’s 
not fair if you ain’t.” 

“I do mean it.” 

“You’ll go to Rangoon and be me ?” he pointed 
at his rumpled waistcoat with his thumb, and a 
queer, flickering look as of indescribable amuse- 
ment flitted over his face, for he was in deadly 
earnest. I’ll take — I’ll take a hundred pun’, if you 


A FOOL'S ERRAND 


46 

can go as high as that. Can you give a hundred 
pun’?” He looked at Quentin eagerly. “If you 
can’t in the lump, you might in instalments, old boy. 
I’d trust you. You’ve an honest face and an honour- 
able way about you. You’d not split either, or let 
Radstock know?” Once the flood-gates of speech 
were loosed, William Dillon apeared to have more 
than enough to say. He began to expand on the sub- 
ject of the job. In the hands of “a clever feller like 
yourself, o’ man,” it might bring in a big income. If 
it did, William felt sure that Quentin would send a 
further cheque out of gratitude, and it took time to 
stem the flow of his discourse. 

In the end William Dillon looked rather askance 
at the cheque which Quentin wrote for him, but as 
he had professed the most complete confidence, he 
was forced to accept it after some hesitation. Quen- 
tin gave him notes to cover the expense of the ticket, 
and the whole arrangement took only a little more 
than an hour. 

They parted in the coffee-room, and Quentin was 
aware of a strange sensation as he looked at William 
Dillon and shook his flabby hand. He knew abso- 
lutely nothing about the man, and yet he was under- 
taking to intercept his destiny, whatever it actually 
might turn out to be. It was whimsical and fantasti- 
cal indeed, as a project, and there was enough of the 
blindness of chance in it all to lend a zest to the ex- 
periment. This could not be described as gambling 
with someone else’s life at any rate, for it was really 
playing a lone hand with an unknown adversary. 

“Good luck, ole feller,” William Dillon said tear- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


47 


fully. “Don’t miss the boat, for God’s sake. It 
would make trouble with Radstock, and Radstock’s 
not the sort to put up with slackness.” 

The swing doors parted and swung to again, and 
William Dillon vanished between them. He had 
gone as completely as though the whole incident had 
been a dream. Only the ticket and a letter telling 
him that he was expected at the Palm Hotel re- 
mained of him, and Quentin gathered up his new 
possessions. His boxes were packed and ready, and 
he had only to tell the boots that he was to be called 
in time to get to London Docks at 6 a.m. 

He did not regret his impulsive act as he went to 
bed and slept soundly, nor did he regret it when he 
awoke to a dreary day of heavy rain. At any rate, 
whatever else it was going to be like, Rangoon would 
offer him sunshine. There was something intensely 
funny about it all when he thought of the man whose 
name was the same as his own. Radstock had in- 
deed bought a pig in a poke, and what he would do 
about it was the next question. No, not quite the 
next, for the first there was the voyage out, and Miss 
Keith. Quentin shrugged his shoulders. He had 
no intention of allowing her to impose herself upon 
him, but then there would be no need, if he knew 
anything of the ways and habits of ships’ officers. 


CHAPTER IV 


The Thebazrfs Queen was an elderly, if not an exact- 
ly old liner, and the second-class accommodation was 
small and contracted. The ship was crowded with 
people when Quentin arrived, and discovered his 
own cabin in a kind of rat-burrow at the end of a 
tiny alley-way. 

All around him partings were in progress, some 
of them tearful and others light-hearted enough, and 
the welter of many personalities imprisoned in 
limited space jarred and jangled as inevitably hap- 
pens on such occasions, and there was a sense of 
strain and temper everywhere. 

On the upper deck the first-class passengers were 
able to give more room to their emotions, but where 
Quentin found himself — in the company of a num- 
ber of children and nursemaids and a varied gather- 
ing of very ordinary-looking people— there was 
nothing specially romantic or poignant in the scene. 

He took up his place at the farthest end of the 
lower deck and watched the crowd, and wondered 
which of the women he saw there might be Miss 
Keith. Not the girl with the sailor blouse and the 
black curls, he hoped. If it were so, he intended to 
hide his own identity, for if ever anyone looked cap- 
able of taking care of herself it was that young lady. 

The moment of departure arrived late in the after- 
48 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


49 

noon, and Quentin leaned on the rail with the rest. 
He had telegraphed to his mother and Sandra, and 
they might possibly be with him in the spirit, but 
none of the handkerchiefs waving pathetically were 
giving him farewell, and for a second he was slightly 
staggered at the thought of his own undertaking and 
what it might entail. 

The racing water and the dull heaviness of the 
sky depressed him, and still he leaned on the rail 
watching the white foam flying in the wake of the 
Thebaw’ s Queen. There was incessant noise every- 
where, and the steady pulse of the engines, the sing- 
ing of the wind and the chatter of voices, and al- 
ready people wanted food, and were searching for 
places to stake their claim with deck chairs. Every- 
thing was dislocated on the first day of the voyage, 
and Quentin got a book from his pocket and began 
to read. 

His associates did not please him, his cabin was a 
black hole which he suspected of being a haunt of 
cockroaches, and he discovered that the lower deck 
was where all the children played, so that peace or 
quiet was out of the question, and the limited space 
where he found himself was likely to be about as 
peaceful as a creche or the middle of a crowded 
street. A collection of the individuals demonstrat- 
ing, between sea and sky, that you carry the world 
with you even if you hope to leave it behind; and, to 
tell the truth, his new world was not altogether a 
pleasing one to Quentin Dillon. 

When the first-class passengers had finished din- 


5 o A FOOL’S ERRAND 

ner, the second-class passengers had their turn, and 
Quentin found a table steward and asked him 
whether he could tell him if there was a Miss Keith 
on board, and if so, which was her place at the long 
table. 

With an easy familiarity to which Dillon was not 
accustomed, the steward winked at him and said 
“that would be quite all right,” and after a little 
delay he came back to Quentin and tapped him on 
the shoulder. 

“Which of them is your little bit of fluff?” he 
asked dubiously. “You see, there’s three on board. 
One gets off at Colombo and the others go on.” 

“Describe them,” Quentin suggested, looking 
down the darkling length of the deck, where square 
patches of yellow light showed through the entrance 
of the companion-way, and through open portholes. 
All else was undefined and vague, and the lingering 
colour of the sunset was reflected from a huge empty 
(horizon of white-capped waters. 

The stewart thought for a moment. “Then you 
don’t know the young lady by sight,” he said. “I 
see. There’s one who is elderly, a nuss in charge of 
an invalid gentleman in the first class. She’s as sour 
as vinegar. Wears specs and has been pitching into 
the stoordess like ’ell already.” 

“Rule her out,” Dillon laughed. “Put me a mile 
away from her, anyhow.” 

“Number 2 is more my fancy,” the table steward 
continued in friendly tones. “AH smiles, and with 
a fine head of hair. Stylish. She’d be some fun, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 51 

but the second officer seems rather taken. I had ar- 
ranged to put her alongside of him.” 

“Don’t alter that,” Quentin said emphatically. 
“I wouldn’t spoil sport for the world.” He felt 
sure that this was the girl he had seen on deck, and 
also that she was Radstock’s niece. 

“Number 3,” the steward continued, “isn’t my 
fancy. I don’t suppose she’d speak without an in- 
troduction. Rather too high and mighty, but she’s 
a fine-looking piece of goods. More on the first- 
class line. She’ll keep herself to herself.” 

“Then put me beside her.” Quentin proffered a 
tip. 

“You like ’em quiet?” the steward asked. “Some 
do. I took you for an officer when I first saw you. 
I suppose you’re in business?” 

“Yes,” Dillon agreed, and he went off to his cabin, 
which he shared with a Baptist missionary, who was 
already suffering direly from the motion of the ship. 

He was thankful to feel that Miss Keith was al- 
ready interesting the second officer, and made up his 
mind to avoid her with all possible determination. 
She was wearing a lace blouse, her hair was orna- 
mented with a variety of diamond combs, and her 
laugh rang loud and metallic from where she sat. 
The seat beside his own was empty, and he con- 
cluded that Miss Keith Number 3 was perhaps no 
better a sailor than the American minister. If so he 
might avoid all intercourse with the feminine por- 
tion of the passengers during the voyage, and he sat 
down and looked at the menu card. 

The dining saloon was fiercely lighted overhead, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


52 

and the queer smell of food, oil and sea penetrated 
everywhere. The rushing of waves beyond the closed 
portholes made a long-drawn obligato to the din of 
voices and the sound of knives and forks, and the 
whole burden of it affected him strangely like a spell. 
He was creating a good deal of interest as he 
sat there silently, and Miss Keith, at the right of the 
second officer who presided at the table, showed that 
she was fully aware of his presence, for she cast him 
more than one encouraging glance. 

It was all quite devoid of illusion, harsh and 
rather ugly as a picture; and just as Quentin was 
deciding what he would drink, the table steward gave 
him a gentle nudge with his elbow as he bent over 
him, and Quentin looked up. 

He had some difficulty in believing the sight which 
met his eyes, and for a second it seemed almost as 
though he were dreaming, for from between the 
velvet curtains which closed the far end of the saloon 
from the alley-way beyond a girl came through, walk- 
ing slowly and searching for her place, and at the 
sight of her Dillon experienced a sudden electric 
shock, for it was none other than “the lady sweet and 
kind.” 

She came to the vacant place at his side and sat 
down. 

At first he hardly dared to look at her, but after 
a few minutes he glanced at her profile. Her hair 
was bright golden and brushed straight back from 
her low, broad forehead, and her eyes were the 
clearest grey. Her features were, as he remembered 
them, rather irregular and her mouth was by no 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


53 

means fautless in line, but there was a sweetness 
about it which excused it sufficiently for not being 
classical. She was slender and gracious in figure, 
and his first sense of her being intensely individual 
was accentuated. She was wearing a white muslin 
dress, open a little at the throat, and a faint scent of 
violets came to him over the ship smells, like the 
fragrance of a spring day. 

Calling his wits to his assistance, Quentin ordered 
a bottle of red wine. He ought to have ordered 
stout to be in keeping with the part he had set out 
to play, but for a moment he had forgotten that he 
was not Quentin Dillon, but a needy adventurer who 
was out to skin his fellow men. 

And then he was aware that Miss Keith was look- 
ing at him in some astonishment, and their eyes met 
and she smiled involuntarily. 

“We have seen each other before,” he said, 
snatching at the opportunity, and he just stopped 
himself before he uttered the hopeless banality that 
the world was a small place. 

“So we have,” she said. “That day at the gal- 
lery.” She looked straight into his dark gaze, and 
then flushed slightly and looked away again. 

Dillon began to make conversation. He felt sure 
that she was the Miss Keith who was “getting off 
and walking, at Colombo,” as the table steward had 
said, and he had a sudden longing to tell her that he 
was only going as far as Ceylon. 

“I am going to Rangoon,” she explained, twirl- 
ing Quentin’s plans around like a teetotum. “It is 
my ‘first arrival’ — I think that is what is is called.” 


54 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

“So am I,” Quentin said, trying to pay some at- 
tention to his food. “I was lucky enough to get 
work there. After the war it’s not very easy to find. 
Are you staying on, or only globe-trotting?” 

She laughed with a sudden spontaneous touch of 
amusement, and it came to Dillon over the inanity 
and the ineffable stupidity of the chatter around him. 
How had she got into such a pack? All the loud 
and ready laughter which was growing as acquaint- 
ances progressed favourably, awoke his intolerance, 
and he wanted to sweep her away from them. 

“Globe-trotting? Surely I don’t suggest anything 
so ambitious as that,” she said. “I am going because 
I have to” — she paused as though on the edge of a 
personal confidence, and then changed her mind and 
said nothing further. 

With an idea of drawing her into some admission 
of who she was and where she came from, Quentin 
became immediately frank. He told her that the 
war had left him stranded, and that he was now on 
his way to undertake a partnership with a man he 
had never seen. Remembering William Dillon’s 
story of the mutual friend, he revived it, and ex- 
plained that he had been chosen by a man who 
thought him suitable. 

“Perhaps we shall meet there,” she said, without 
the least touch of coquetry, as Quentin offered to peel 
her banana for her; bananas being the only fruit ac- 
corded to passengers of the second class. 

“My partner is a man called Radstock,” he said, 
his eyes on the banana. “Did you ever hear of 
him?” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


55 

“But this is too astonishing.” She turned and 
looked at him with her steady, clear eyes. “You are 
speaking of my uncle. At least, of the man who 
married my aunt. I am going out to those very 
people, and neither of us have seen them yet.” 

“It is wonderful.” He looked at her with a slight 
sense of alarm. The gods were almost too merci- 
ful and he doubted whether so much good fortune 
could be possible. “Can you tell me anything about 
them? Can I not find you a deck chair and let us 
talk it over?” 

The knowledge that they were both bound for 
the same destination seemed to dispel Miss Keith’s 
slight reserve, and Quentin watched the girl whom 
he had imagined to be her disappear to a dark cor- 
ner of the deck with another young man whom she 
had picked up during dinner, as he placed two chairs 
in a sheltered corner, where they were out of the 
high, tearing wind that swept the deck. 

Gradually he pieced the background together 
which belonged to “the lady sweet and kind.” Her 
pale face, with its pervading subtlety and distinction, 
was hardly clear to him in the darkness where they 
sat, and she talked quietly with a direct openness 
that touched his heart. 

Her home was broken up through death, and he 
caught a glimpse of a house in the west of Ireland 
where she had lived with her father, whose chief pur- 
suit was gardening and who, like his own Uncle 
Arthur, took a fanatical interest in church matters. 
He pictured her in a firelit drawing-room with tall 
windows and faded paper on the walls; river and 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


56 

wood outside, and barren, purple mountains where 
sunsets burned golden over the shoulder of the hills. 

Her life must have been full of the quiet of a wide 
country, and grey soft rain, and blue clear skies. 
Marion had never been anywhere else, so that the 
wide world was rather a menacing place to her. She 
was, he gathered from scattered dates she alluded 
to, about twenty-three and had sometimes — only 
sometimes — wished that something would happen. 

Nothing had happened for years, except what was 
expected, like Christmas, and the steady flow of the 
changing seasons; a little occasional gaiety when she 
went to a dance at Ramelton, and the annual ex- 
cursion to Dublin for the Horse Show. She knew 
that her mother’s sister had married a man called 
Radstock and gone to the East, but more than that 
she did not know. Her mother was only the dim- 
mest memory, and there had always been a breach 
between the families, though she did not know the 
reason of it. 

Then the skies had fallen. Marion Keith’s father 
had died quite suddenly, and instead of inheriting 
the grey stone house and wide garden, she found her- 
self exiled. A cousin whom she had never seen in- 
herited everything under the law of entail, down to 
the last of the heavy Georgian silver teaspoons, and 
beyond a small sum of ready money which lay to her 
father’s credit at the bank, there was nothing at all 
for his daughter. 

It was then that the dim, unknown figure of her 
Aunt Mildred had loomed upon the horizon. In 
reply to a letter telling her that her brother-in-law 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


57 

was dead, she had written saying that bygones 
should be bygones, and that she was prepared to 
offer her niece a home. 

As she had no training of any kind, the offer came 
to Marion as a godsend, and she wanted to get right 
away from the house, never to see it in the hands of 
strangers. 

“I can’t tell you how I love the place,” she said 
wistfully. “I have never been the kind of person 
who is content with half a loaf. I’d really rather 
have no bread. Anyhow, Aunt Mildred was ex- 
tremely kind, because she knows nothing whatever 
about me, except what I look like in a photograph; 
and as it flattered me disgracefully, she may get a 
shock when we meet.” 

“It will be a change,” he said thoughtfully. Quen- 
tin was thinking how frank she had been. She had 
admitted him into her confidence with such readiness, 
and he was storing up his new impressions of her, 
and in return he could tell her almost nothing. He 
was pledged to William Dillon to play the part he 
had undertaken with Radstock. So long as he was 
working with Radstock he could keep in touch with 
Marion Keith, and he frowned as he remembered 
William Dillon’s description of the kind of job it 
was that he had parted with, not out of any squeam- 
ishness, but because he was nearly frightened to 
death. The Palm Hotel — a “flash place” — where 
he was to take upon himself to meet “fellers who 
wanted to see life.” He thought of the hot, tropical 
setting and compared it instantly with the cold, pure 
winds blowing sweet over lake and bog. Marion 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


58 

was going out from the one, unprepared and unpro- 
tected, into the other. Yet what had her coming 
out done for him? The whole mad enterprise, 
undertaken on the spur of the moment, leaped into 
life and meaning for him. There was something 
more than chance or romance in the juxtaposition 
of events. A slight chill, like the passing influence 
of something evil, crossed his keen excitement, with 
a shiver of apprehension. 

She was talking to him again, telling him how she 
had come to London to get her outflt, and had 
chanced to walk into the picture gallery where she 
felt only stupid and old fashioned, because none of 
the pictures she saw there were in the least real to 
her. “I am absurdly ignorant,” she said with sud- 
den shyness, “and here I am sitting talking to you 
of nothing but myself. Please tell me something in 
return.” 

Dillon looked out at the narrow strip of cloudy 
sky, visible over the rails, and the sighing of wind 
and water sounded in his ears. “Myself?” he said. 
“There isn’t really very much for me to say. I’m 
afraid I haven’t been a very satisfactory person, so 
far. However, there’s always a lot to be said for a 
new start.” 

She was a little hurt, he knew that directly she 
pulled her cloak around her shoulders and said she 
must go to her cabin, and he got up at once and 
walked with her to the lighted door. 

He saw her go down the stairway, and she turned 
and smiled back at him. She was too entirely frank 
and straightforward to be anything but friendly, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


59 

but he felt that she must wonder why it was that 
he had nothing to say. 

The table steward greeted him with a friendly grin 
as he turned away. “Not letting the grass grow 
under your feet, Mr. Dillon,” he remarked. “If 
you’d seen life to the extent I ’ave on voyages, you’d 
be able to write volumes,” and he went onwards with 
the air of a philosopher who has outgrown the pos- 
sibility of astonishment. 


CHAPTER V 


The voyage, like all voyages, was subject to the 
usual vicissitudes of such crowded occasions, and yet 
the days certainly marked a deepening of friendship 
on the side of Marion Keith, and Quentin Dillon 
gave himself up completely as a man who had lost 
his heart. 

He could not see into any imaginary future. Mar- 
ion might care for him, but there were times when she 
avoided him and days when he hardly spoke more 
than half a dozen words to her. Ship’s gossip had 
reached her ears, and she evidently resented it, for 
she made it clear that she did not intend Quentin to 
sit for ever at her side in a long chair, and as he 
feared to drive her away from the deck, he accepted 
the silent protest on her part, and played bridge and 
poker with his fellow voyagers in a stifling smoking- 
room. 

Had she been the Miss Keith who was leaving the 
ship at Colombo, he would have forced the pace and 
insisted that she must listen to all he intended to 
tell her sooner or later, but, as it was, there was 
time, and he chose rather to possess his soul with 
what patience he could. 

There were the usual parties formed to “see 
sights” at Port Said and Colombo. Deplorable 
parties were made up by the more energetic organ- 
60 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


6 1 


isers on the Thebaw’s Queen , and Quentin, who ab- 
horred trips or trippers, had perforce to make one 
of a staring crowd. He was aware he was not doing 
things sufficiently on the cheap, and when he found, 
on arriving at Colombo, that the Baptist missioner 
had formed a select gathering under his own chap- 
eronage which included Marion Keith, he said that 
he could not afford it, and remained sulkily on board 
until everyone had forsaken him. When they were 
all gone, he regretted his choice, and thought long- 
ingly of an excursion to Newaralia, on a car, of 
course, but then he couldn’t be expected to afford 
such a preposterous piece of extravagance. Marion 
Keith and the American Baptist, accompanied by his 
wife and three children, were going to Mount La- 
vinia, and it would be hateful to sit there and drink 
ginger-beer without the smallest chance of seeing 
her alone. 

He left the ship in a raging temper, and walked 
along the colonnades where heaped unset stones 
were piled in trays behind the glass of the jewellers’ 
windows, and everywhere he looked he saw some- 
thing beautiful which he wanted to buy for her. At 
the end of a wholly unsatisfactory day, he retired to 
the veranda of the Galle Face Hotel and watched the 
red road with drowsy introspective eyes. 

Dillon was awakened from his dreams by the 
voices of two men talking just behind him at a small 
table, and the name of Radstock came to him with a 
sudden effect that follows upon the casual mention of 
names which are known to us. 

The men who sat behind him were dressed in 


62 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


white from shoes to hat, and the hot, heavy day was 
drawing to its shining close over a still sea, so that 
the light was soft, and the chicks had been rolled 
up to let in the cooler air. Dillon could not see 
the faces of the men who were speaking, as he was 
sitting with his back towards them, but one of them 
had a deep assertive voice, and the other had all the 
remains of a cockney accent which had been culti- 
vated out of its original twang. 

“I am not afraid of anything Radstock can do,” 
the man with the cockney voice said, with the en- 
thusiasm of great conviction. “It’s all very fine for 
you to talk. What did I get? Two hundred and 
fifty dollars, and had to clear out. You made a 
bit yourself, even if you aren’t owning up to it.” 
His voice was raised suddenly to a high note. “All 
the same, I’m with you that he’s going too far.” 

“He’s gone too far,” the other voice replied heav- 
ily. “But I believe he has a partner coming out.” 

“Oh, so? I didn’t know that. What sort of a 
partner?” 

“Some one he can keep under his fist — or so I gath- 
ered. And there’s Mrs. Rad’s niece. Did you hear 
of her?” 

“No, not a whisper. I see they’ve been keeping 
me in the dark.” 

“Oh, a pretty bit of a thing, by the photo,” the 
man with the deep voice added a laugh to his com- 
ment. “She’ll need to have her wits well about her” 
— he got up and they went out together, still talk- 
ing and evidently amused, and Quentin watched them 
with a feeling of mingled anger and dismay. His 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


63 


future partner was going to be no better or worse 
than he had expected, but it maddened him to hear 
Marion spoken of in such a way by such people. 

He got up, realising that it was time he went back 
to the Thebaw’ s Queen , and that evening Marion 
gave him no opportunity to talk to her alone. She 
used the Baptist missioner and his wife like a shield 
to protect her from his attack, and once again he 
was driven away to the smoking-room. 

“During the last days of the voyage his “lady 
sweet and kind’’ was provokingly elusive. When 
he was able to get her alone, she was perfectly gra- 
cious and natural; there was no tightening of her 
fastidious upper lip, or widening of the distance 
between them, but he felt that she deliberately de- 
cided that she would let him come no closer, as he 
looked at her delicate, spiritual mouth and longed 
to kiss it and discover whether it could become 
yielding and human. She was quiet as moonlight, 
and she spoke of the end of the journey with grow- 
ing excitement. 

“I have always lingered about on the edge of 
crowds,” she said, as they leaned on the rail watch- 
ing the hazy distance of the Burmese coast lying 
like a purple shadow beyond the glaring blue of 
the sea, “and now I suppose I shall have to go into 
the arena. I do wonder what they are like?” She 
looked at him as though she tried to understand 
something of her own strength and weakness. As 
he looked at her he felt her clear, ardent nature 
reaching forth to fresh possibilities like a strong 
swimmer going out to face the swinging tides. 


6 4 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Whatever they are like we have our friendship,” 
he said. He was wearing his London-made white 
clothes, and had taken off his topi under the shadow 
of the upper deck, so that his dark eyes and tanned 
face were cast into strong relief, and Quentin Dillon 
looked blazingly alive. 

The blood came with a rush to her cheeks and 
forehead, and she avoided his look. “Yes,” she 
said hesitatingly. “It’s all so strange, Mr. Dillon.” 

“I was told to take care of you, and all I have 
done is to watch the admirable Mr. Spencer and his 
wife turn you into a nursemaid. I wonder what 
your aunt will want you to do?” 

“I used to feel that I was sitting still while every- 
thing and everyone else went racing off, and now 

I’m losing nerve because it’s all ” she paused 

and repeated her former remark — “it’s all so 
strange.” 

“Am I strange?” he asked impulsively. 

“You are the strangest bit of it all.” She low- 
ered her eyes and spoke rather quickly. “You see, 
Mr. Spencer doesn’t seem to like my uncle, and I 
have felt once or twice that he and his wife were 
almost trying to put me on guard. As you do know 
something of my uncle, can you tell me if there is 
anything ” she broke off distressed and even agi- 

tated. 

“I wish to God there was anything I could tell 
you,” Dillon said earnestly. “I don’t know any 
more than you do.” 

She seemed to consider what he said again, and 
then she withdrew herself, and her interest forsook 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


65 

her so that she became cold and spiritless. He had 
disappointed her, and he knew, somehow, that she 
turned to look back to the grey house with the pur- 
ple hills behind it and the dark ilex trees that grow 
along the drive. She had never spoken of it again 
to him since their first meeting, but he could tell 
when she returned there in spirit, and that she al- 
ways did return when she felt herself lonely and 
disconsolate. She was casting back now to her first 
beginnings as the glory of the East spread itself 
out before her. 

“Mr. Spencer tells me that my uncle is said to be 
a very rich man,” she said, collecting herself again. 
“I dread rich people; they seem almost uncanny to 
me, because we were poor, and every one I know 
was poor. Do you think they will have that awful 
thing, a large establishment, Mr. Dillon? I don’t 
even know all the right forks and spoons to use, 
and I shall be ridiculously shy.” 

A real fear of the Radstock menage held Quentin 
silent. It was quite possible that Radstock did keep 
up an ostentatious display for his own reasons, and 
he was certain to entertain unless he lived a double 
life; but the introduction of Marion into the house- 
hold hinted at a definite plan for her exploitation. 

“My aunt told me in her last letter that you would 
be coming out with me, and that I mustn’t make too 
many friends on the voyage, as Uncle Rad has to be 
particular,” she laughed. “Perhaps she meant 
you?” and fearing she might have hurt him, she 
shook her head. “Of course, I was only joking, and 


66 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


you do give me a feeling of safety. I think this ar- 
rival is rather like dying slowly.” 

“Why?” he said quickly. “What on earth makes 
you think that?” 

“Because all I do know is, that nothing I do know 
now will be of any use to me. Everything will be 
strange. I have no landmarks.” 

Mr. Spencer joined them, full of fussy informa- 
tion, and Quentin looked away to where the first 
outposts signified that the Thebaw’s Queen had 
crossed the bar and was entering the wide, troubled 
entrance to the Rangoon River. They were having 
this experience in common, Marion Keith and he, 
and he looked over the mud flats and the sand flats 
where the first sign of straggling houses lay like the 
thin end of a lizard’s tail, and corrugated tin sheds 
blazoned with the names of oil companies, teak com- 
panies and rice merchants stared grimly out over 
their wharves. Plaster houses and bungalows, the 
colour of cigar boxes, double-storied and with out- 
side shutters to the windows, stood behind neglected 
gardens, and the effect of it all was curiously mor- 
dant and oppressive, as though one had wandered 
into a dream, not without beauty, but which is far 
from comforting or inspiring, The snatches of 
life which he saw along the banks seemed to cover 
a cosmopolitan range of races. Straw-hatted China- 
men, clad in meagre blue linen coats and wearing 
wide shan trousers, mixed with wild looking men in 
fantastically dyed wrappings, smooth Madrassis and 
stout steady-going Burmese in silk petticoats and 
white jackets. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


67 

He handed his glasses to Marion Keith. “Have 
a look at your neighbours,” he said, “and tell me 
what you think of them.” 

“I don’t know what I think,” she said, moving 
a little closer to him suddenly. “But wait, wait 
until you look again.” She handed him back his 
glasses, and Dillon strained his eyes to catch the 
first sight of the high golden spire of the Shwey 
Dagone, raising itself beacon-like against the sky* 
A shaft of sunlight caught it and turned it into a 
living splendour, and as he looked, absorbed in the 
sudden graciousness of the sight, Marion touched 
his arm. 

“I shall remember that when I have forgotten 
those haunted-looking bungalows,” she said. She 
seemed to be enrapt in the glory of life. Her youth 
was going to move through the mysterious city that 
lay in the purple shadows ahead of the steadily 
ploughing ship, and her dreams were transfigured by 
her rising hope. She was happy and her eyes shone. 

Quentin watched her with a touch of pain at his 
heart. He was nearing the moment when he would 
have to go to the Palm Hotel to take up his doubt- 
ful role, and Radstock would have to show his hand 
to him, however much he hid it from others. 

He and his “lady sweet and kind” — this exces- 
sively young Irish girl — were cast out together upon 
the waters of life. Quentin was forced to marvel 
at the romance of such a destiny, thankful to know 
that he was thrown on the same racing current and 
being swept towards the same end, as far as any 
mortal calculation could foretell. 


CHAPTER VI 


Arrival descended quickly upon the Thebaw’s 
Queen , and amid fierce shouting and a conflict of noise 
she was drawn to the landing stage and the gang- 
ways were let down. In the rush which followed, and 
the good-byes, which were either neglected or pro- 
tracted according to the degree of intimacy which 
the voyage had brought about, Quentin lost Marion 
Keith temporarily, and only saw her again as she 
followed a short stout man across the gangway. She 
waved to .him and seemed, so Dillon thought, to say 
something to her companion, but he only hurried her 
onwards, and a block on the deck prevented any 
chance of Quentin catching up with her again. 

His own affair was to find the Palm Hotel, and de- 
posit his luggage and then await some sign from 
Radstock, so he wandered off slowly, taking in his 
first impressions of Rangoon. Behind the wharf 
there was a wide road, bordered by gold mohur 
trees in brilliant crimson flower, and at the further 
end where tram lines crossed and trams passed with 
much jarring and shrieking, the Palm Hotel reared 
itself straight and narrow, and towering over the 
neighbouring houses. Dillon had arranged that his 
luggage was to be taken there on a hand-cart and was 
in no special hurry to look at his own quarters, so 
he turned up a side street and passed by sudden 
transition into a new world. 

68 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


69 

Colour ran riot around him; painted doors, green 
and savage red, decorated with tarnished gilding, 
struck a vivid note, acrid and shrill against the blue 
and magenta plaster of the houses. He suspected 
that strange lives, strange dirt and strange evils 
might exist behind the subtle, drowsing quiet of 
closed jinmills and from there he ran incontinently 
into the coolie slums of the town, with little dark 
streets of dwellings intersected and twined one into 
the other like a knot of struggling worms, heavy with 
the reek of dead fish, living humanity, spiced food 
and ghee. 

With some difficulty he escaped from the squalid 
environment and got back to the Chinese quarter, 
which held its secrets well. You could only guess 
at possible opium dens and gaming houses, though 
the restaurants proclaimed themselves frankly with 
open doors, where already the soft light falling from 
six-foot paper lanterns mingled with the oncoming 
evening. He was interested and amused by what 
he saw, and thinking that probably by this time 
Radstock might have decided to come to interview 
his new partner, he walked back to the Palm Hotel. 

The hotel was very much what he had expected 
it to be. Beyond the fact that it was built to suit 
a tropical climate, it was practically no more than 
an Eastern reproduction of the hotel near Padding- 
ton where he had met William Dillon. There was 
greater freedom of manner and speech, and there 
were a number of native servants; but the atmos- 
phere was the same, and the men who sat about 
looked much the same except for their crumpled 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


70 

white suits and a far greater lavishness in the mat- 
ter of expenditure. His room was on the second 
story and looked out at the back directly into a half- 
derelict establishment, rented, it appeared, by a num- 
ber of different people. On the ground floor a 
“French Pin Man” had done his best to live and 
given up the struggle; only his sign remained, and 
it hung there as all things hang in the East, until 
an earthquake or a storm should come to blow it 
down. Quentin stood for a time thinking of the de- 
parted Pin Man, and wondering whether he had 
gone back to France or more probably just drifted 
into the bazaar and remained there lying on a string 
bed insufficiently clothed, and having decided to go 
native. 

He had a curious quick sense towards places, and 
the atmosphere of the Palm Hotel was highly fla- 
voured. Already he knew that the conventional 
rules more or less hypocritically observed in the 
West, were slackened, and you could see the easier 
attitude in the eyes and speech of the men who had 
been gathered in the bar as he passed through. He 
looked again at the world below his window. It 
was fantastic, changing and dream-like, exotic in its 
suggestion; alluring to his unaccustomed eyes. The 
external objects he saw seemed by some trick of 
magic to form themselves into a group of impres- 
sions, beginning with his first sight of Marion Keith 
in the picture gallery. 

She had been the first visible link in a chain of 
events, and it was she who had awakened him from 
the stupor of the past which had laid its numbing 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


7i 

grasp upon the empty present. Then there had 
been the ridiculous affair of Wade. Occasionally 
our enemies do more for us than our friends, be- 
cause they sting us into action, and Wade had pro- 
duced the effect of a mosquito bite, followed by its 
consequent restlessness. 

Sandra had added to the growing force which 
urged him forward, because she would not adminis- 
ter an anodyne. She had been wiser, far wiser than 
he had guessed. Good Sandra, dear Sandra, who 
had been very gentle in her refusal. And then there 
came the meeting with William Dillon; another act 
in this variegated, dramatic list of circumstances and, 
in its way, the most decisive of all. Following close- 
ly upon his wayward changing of identities, Marion 
stepped into the picture again, and there was the 
voyage and his ever growing love for her. The next 
step would be his meeting with Radstock, and what- 
ever he thought of him he would have to play his 
part carefully and well. It was no longer a mad-cat 
experience and capable of being flung aside the mo- 
ment it became distasteful to him. It involved far 
bigger issues and far more precise consideration. 

He studied his own face carefully. There was 
nothing of the roue or the blackguard about him, 
and he was always extremely well dressed. He was 
to induce men to come and be skinned by Radstock, 
and only by keeping in with Radstock could he pro- 
tect Marion. There was an alternative which it 
was yet too early to suggest, and that was that Mar- 
ion should marry him; his eyes softened. But she 
was not to marry William Dillon, the man of im- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


72 

permanence. How could he suggest it at present? 
What was his own background, the Palm Hotel and 
a distinctly ill-conditioned* reputation? He could 
not tell her that Dawn and a decent record really 
lay behind him, and that if she allowed her life to 
join in with his it would not engulf her in a murky, 
disreputable sea. She might forgive this and love 
him in spite of all, but Quentin made a pact of hon- 
our with himself, saying that he would not offer her 
a despicable past. Until he could tell her everything, 
he decided to tell her nothing. 

“I hope I’m a good imposter,” he said in his heart, 
as a knock at his door made him turn, and he was 
informed by a strangely decayed-looking servant in a 
tattered red serge coat and dirty white draperies, 
that Radstock Sahib was in the lounge, and sent his 
salaams to Dillon Sahib. 

Radstock was sitting at a small table, taking no 
notice of anyone. He was a short, stout man with 
thick and very wooden-looking legs, his hair was 
grey and rather scanty and his face plump and even 
childish. His eyes were pale, of a washed-out blue, 
and he had a tow-coloured moustache of the rather 
flowing kind. Either he was short-sighted, or for 
reasons of his own he affected to be so, for he wore 
a single eyeglass without a cord, and there was a 
perkiness about the sharp line of his nose. His fig- 
ure had run to seed, and though a wide gulf sepa- 
rated him outwardly from the far lower degree of 
William Dillon, there was just a sufficient hint of 
likeness somewhere in the whole effect to awaken 
the suspicions of an acute observer. In manner he 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


73 

was extremely hearty and cheerful, and when he 
saw Quentin coming he certainly did not for a mo- 
ment suppose him to be the man he was there to 
meet, for he was quite genuinely astonished when he 
introduced himself. 

“You’re Dillon?” Radstock dropped his eye- 
glass and put it into his waistcoat pocket. “I had 
imagined, somehow, that you would be a much older 
man.” He looked with a quick, searching glance 
at Quentin as he added, still in a friendly tone, “You 
appear to have stood the life well.” 

“I can stand most things,” Quentin said morosely. 

“I dare say, I dare say.” Radstock held out a 
hand covered with a forest of hair, which struck 
Quentin as being extremely repulsive. “I was only 
remarking that you appear to have a good consti- 
tution.” 

Dillon laughed and ordered two glasses of ver- 
mouth. He had expected someone far more buc- 
caneering than this ordinary-looking middle-aged 
man, and he decided to let him do all the talking. 
He was under orders, and Radstock must be the 
one to lay his first card on the table. 

But it appeared that Radstock was in no hurry. 
He talked of indifferent subjects and spoke of his 
“little plan,” without entering into details. 

“I specially wish you to understand,” he said 
rather unpleasantly, “that our footing must be a 
business one. Now and then I may want you to dine 
at my house, and if so you will come. Otherwise, 
the less we are seen together the better. I hear 
that you looked after Miss Keith on the voyage. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


74 

With regards to her” — his pale eyes grew narrow 
— “the acquaintance need not progress. She is with 
her aunt now, and there is not the least need for you 
to meet, unless quite occasionally. I am not particu- 
lar” — he waved his monkey-like hands — “but my 
wife is.” 

Quentin said nothing. This was straight talk, 
certainly, and it was more politic to refuse to take 
offence. To sit in the second-rate surroundings and 
allow an ill-bred little man, who was nothing more 
than a common swindler, deliberately to snap his fin- 
gers in his face, might not be agreeable, but at the 
same time there was nothing for him to say. 

“I am very glad to hear it,” was his comment. 

Radstock glanced at him again rather doubtfully 
and spread out his hands on the table. 

“Nesbit, the proprietor of this hotel, is a gentle- 
man,” he said. “He will put you up for the club, 
and help you to get to know fellows.” 

“And when do I know them?” Dillon asked. 

“I am running a private club,” Radstock said. 
“On quite straightforward lines, of course, where 
those who like something a little more racy than 
bridge can have a flutter now and then. You are 
a casual acquaintance, and it’s to be regarded as a 
favour to be introduced into membership — you un- 
derstand?” 

“I understand.” 

“Good. Well, on the whole, I like the look of 
you. I was hardly prepared” — Radstock gave a 
rather malicious laugh — “for anyone quite so fash- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


75 

ion able, but it’s all to the good. In fact, I’m quite 
pleased about it.” 

“As the club meets at your own house” — Quentin 
ignored the implied compliment — “does Mrs. Rad- 
stock understand the situation?” He had no inten- 
tion, on his part, of glozing over facts, and so far 
as he was concerned, the nakedness of the truth did 
not cause him any shame whatever. 

“Mrs. Radstock? She knows what I tell her.” 
Radstock half closed his eyes. “Having some sense 
she does not ask questions. The club meets at my 
house, which is a very large one, in Pagoda Road. 
I can give up two rooms to it, and mind you” — 
he suddenly grew angry, and his voice was sharp and 
hissing — “I want you to choose carefully. I can’t 
have fellows coming to play who aren’t well able 
to afford it. If there is scandal, it puts a stop to 
everything. You will make it your business to find 
out this before you introduce men you may meet. 
There are men I won’t have there, and generally 
speaking, I don’t want any of the Peg Club lot, or 
traders who live in Rangoon.” — he grew flushed 
with his angry eagerness. “Nor will I have mixed 
breeds, however much they can afford it. Chinks 
are outside this little scheme. I depend upon you 
to use tact.” 

“Very well,” Dillon agreed. “I suppose that you 
will give me a little time for selection."” 

“Certainly, certainly.” Radstock grew amiable 
again. “I’ll be pushing along again now. The 
terms we agreed to were your keep — not including 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


76 

drinks — at the Palm, and a fair commission. I 
call it liberal.” 

“I don’t know yet what I call it,” Dillon said 
briefly. 

“You’re damned lucky,” Radstock retorted. 
“After all, a fellow with your record to be floated 
into the best society and given the run of your teeth ; 
it’s a fine chance. Mac told me things,” he went 
on hastily. “I took his word for it that you’d do, 
and you ought to do, but I know all about you, Mr. 
William Dillon.” He reverted once more to his 
more friendly mood. “I say this so as you should 
know where you are. I don’t judge my neighbours 
or come down on them for their misfortunes ; it’s not 
Christian.” 

“The less you say to me or to anyone else about 
my past record, the better,” Quentin said with smoul- 
dering eyes. “So long as I shepherd in a fair num- 
ber of lambs for you to shear that’s all that matters 
to you, I take it.” 

Radstock got up and held out his hand. “We 
understand one another,” he said, in a more sub- 
dued tone. “In the future we shall not meet here. 
When I want to talk privately to you you can come 
to Rosemary Villa, and see me privatefy.” 

Dillon took his hand reluctantly. He had never 
felt a more definite dislike towards any fellow crea- 
ture, and in the effervescence of his temperament, 
his sense of disgust rose within him almost to burst- 
ing point. But unreasonable or even perfectly rea- 
sonable ardours of feeling were not to be exhibited 
if he was to maintain his shady partnership with 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


77 

Radstock, so he conquered his repulsion and shook 
the proffered hand. 

He wanted desperately to know what Mrs. Rad- 
stock was like. She might be dependable. Many 
women had the bad luck to be married to black- 
guards and still kept their own integrity clean. If 
she were formed of different stuff to her husband, 
the lot of Marion Keith might not be altogether 
intolerable, but if she were not, he dreaded to think 
what ugly circumstances might surround her. He 
felt that he must know at once what sort of woman 
-she was, so he walked through the vestibule with 
Radstock in outward friendliness. 

After debating in his mind whether he should sug- 
gest that he might call at Rosemary Villa after din- 
ner, he finally decided that he would say nothing 
of his plan. Once he got there, he must trust to 
luck that fate would favour him, and if he spoke 
of it in advance Radstock might make it impossible 
for him to snatch the chance. 

Quentin watched him go down the steps of the 
Palm Hotel and climb into a private gharry, driven 
by a kotchwan in green livery. The door of the 
quee»r, box-like vehicle was closed with a bang, and 
Radstock, his arms thrust into the straps at either 
side, looked out at him through the glass of the 
window, with a queer, mistrustful gaze, and amid the 
noises of the street the gharry drove away. There 
had been a touch of secret passion in his look, as 
though he doubted his own wisdom in a matter which 
meant life and death to him. 

Quentin made a mental note of the look, and de- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


78 

cided that he must induce a better feeling of security 
in the mind of Radstock. He dined alone at a 
small table under the whirring of electric fans set 
high in the ceiling, and took careful notice of the 
men who came and went. Not among these, he 
thought, were his lambs, and there was no special 
object in making fresh acquaintances; bitt as he sat 
over a cup of black coffee he was joined by a man 
who came in towards the end of his meal, and who 
sauntered up to his table. 

He was a tall, rather affected, and conceited-look- 
ing man of forty-two or forty-three, with coarse red 
hair and a thick, well-cared-for moustache. Essen- 
tially second-rate, he made a huge effort to be 
excessively smart, and he spoke in a deep voice, 
adopting the air of a man of the world. 

“I’m Nesbit,” he announced. “And you, I be- 
lieve, are Dillon.” 

Quentin admitted that it was so, and offered his 
new acquaintance a cigarette, but he declined it, and 
produced a long cigar which he lighted, explaining 
that he ran the hotel in which Dillon found himself, 
as a kind of experiment. 

“That’s the best of clearing out,” he added, “one 
can do things here which wouldn’t be possible at 
home. One’s people, you understand, and so forth.” 
As he swaggered abominably about himself, Quentin 
listened. Nesbit was determined to impress, and 
talked very largely indeed. He was, he said, an 
inn-keeper, and made a joke of it, but in a place 
like Rangoon you could stoop to conquer, and he 
was a member of all the social clubs, and went to 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


79 

dances in private houses. He knew the Lieutenant- 
Governor’s A.D.C.’s, and, from his own account, 
he was one of the most sought after bachelors in 
Burma. 

“Rad isn’t a bad sort,” he remarked, pulling at 
his cigar, which was not smoking satisfactorily. 
“Quite a sportsman. I rather took on to that idea 
he spoke of, and I’ll see you through. I’ve spoken 
to one or two fellows about you already, and it 
won’t be long before you’ll swear by the East — of 
course, there are some rather stuffy people about, 
but you’d find that everywhere.” 

“Do you know Mrs. Radstock?” Dillon asked 
cautiously. 

“Everyone knows Mrs. Rad,” Nesbit shrugged 
his shoulders and laughed. “She’s a type.” But 
beyond this he would not go; whether his powers 
of description were weak, or he felt that he would 
prefer Dillon to approach her with an open mind, 
was not obvious, and he declined to be drawn into 
further admissions. 

“You’ve been elected to the Sheldon and the Lake 
Clubs,” he said, his uneasy eyes flickering over the 
room. “The Shelton’s a good place and everyone 
goes there, tin gods and all. The Lake, too, only 
that isn’t select. All the riff-raff can join, but sets 
never mix here. You’ll have to see the fellows in 
the big shops — white, of course, but not any class.” 

Dillon remarked that he might survive the exper- 
ience, and Nesbit invited him to his own rooms at 
the back of the Palm Hotel. 

“I live here so as to keep an eye on things,” he 


8o 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


said, not because he felt specially necessary to im- 
press Quentin, whom he regarded as entirely be- 
neath him, but merely because he always excused 
himself for having anything to say to his estab- 
lishment. 

“Not to-night,” Dillon yawned; “I want to have 
a look around first.” 

Nesbit bestowed a peculiar smile on Quentin, 
which was a mixture of amusement and slyness, and 
was so distasteful to Dillon that he longed to hit the 
vulgarly handsome man in the face with his fist. 

“I’ll not offer to go with you,” he said, “I have 
to be rather careful. For you, of course, it doesn’t 
matter.” And with that, he got up and swung out 
of the room, the servants scurrying away like fright- 
ened rabbits at his approach. 


CHAPTER VII 


Quentin walked out into the brilliant tropical night 
where everything seemed to be more alive than it 
had been in the earlier hours. The huge bazaar 
lay between Wharf Street, where the Palm Hotel 
was situated, and the European residential quarter 
of the town. 

Over his head the sky was spacious, calm and 
bright, with the shining of great stars, and around 
him the noises of life were penetrating and incessant. 
Red dust lay along the roads and hung in the air, 
and the passing of the water carriers with their large 
skin vessels with great bamboo spouts had added 
the smell of drenched dust to the other smells which 
were myriad in their power and number. The 
shops were still open, and might, for aught he knew, 
remain open for the night. Queer open fronted 
booths, where baskets were sold, and others, filled 
with mirrors, the prices chalked on the surface of 
the shining glass, sweet stalls, fruit stalls and num- 
bers of cafes flanked by dusty tubs of plants, where 
crowds of customers swarmed like flies, some of 
them reclining on sofas set in the street itself. Tail- 
ors sitting on the ground, worked at sewing ma- 
chines, and the frontages of the strange little places 
of business were decorated with signs inscribed in 
curling Burmese characters, hooping and arching 
themselves into mysterious looking words. 

81 


82 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


A whole motley of colour possessed the centre of 
the street. Crimson, magenta, exquisite yellow and 
lapis lazuli, crashed into accord with royal purple 
and the tenderest sky blue. Burmen wearing yards 
of stiff rustling silk jostled lean Chinamen and Mad- 
rassis, and even Arabs in flowing white were in the 
throng, walking like high priests or princes and ig- 
noring their surroundings royally. 

Quentin took his way among the concourse, where 
screaming children fought and played in the gutter 
completely naked and undisturbed, among furtive 
shadows of pariah dogs and lean, ill-favoured cats. 
Publicity was everywhere — sometimes a rag of cur- 
tain covered the entrance to the dilapidated houses, 
but just as often it did not, and everyone in all 
stages of dress or undress assembled to watch the 
night show of the streets. 

Lights shone out in the high windows, and the 
story tellers came forth and squatted on the ground, 
gathering their audience with clapping hands and 
fierce gesticulation, and inside one house, where 
great green dragons curled up the fretted entrance, 
a sound of beating tom-toms and the strident sing- 
ing of a gramophone invited the unfastidious within, 
the invitation repeated by faces which peered over 
the balcony, watching the street. 

The river lay behind him where lamps gleamed 
in the mast riggings like dim stars, and a great sheet 
of yellow light showed black figures working over- 
time alongside of a towering liner due to start at high 
tide in the morning. Little sampans glided in and 
out like whispers, and the whole sense of the place 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


83 

came upon Quentin with a bewilderment of feeling. 
The East was close to him here, and yet he stood 
utterly alien from it, understanding nothing except 
the externals; the passionate mystery of the oppres- 
sive scent and vivid colour. 

He steered his way to the two square towers of 
the Cathedral, which cut darkly against the sky, and 
came into the wide commercial quarter of the town, 
where, in strong contrast to the bazaar, everything 
seemed to sleep. Even the tamarisk trees seemed 
slumbering, and the tall houses of business were 
closed and shuttered, dreaming whatever dreams 
linger in such places until the staff returned in the 
morning, and the bulky prosperous managers and 
partners drove up in their motor-cars and dealt 
in financial matters for the short working hours of 
a tropical day. 

Dillon had not any very clear directions as to 
where Rosemary Villa was situated, but he left the 
golden pillar of the Shwey Dagone gleaming in 
the starlight, and made onwards up a hill where a 
number of dark roofs showed at intervals behind 
walls of trees, all bearing a scented flower. Even 
if he did not find the place, the walk itself had en- 
chantment enough, and it interested him to watch 
the occasionally passing carriages and cars and catch 
glimpses of women in evening dress, and the men 
who were with them. It was the first time in his life 
that he had stood completely outside what would 
have been his own world, and though he suspected 
it to be a deadly place enough, it had at least at- 
tained a real touch of romance. He could never 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


34 

sit at dinner beside the women who flashed past in 
the scented, tropical night, and know their limita- 
tions; so that they could remain fairy princesses to 
him. 

After stopping one or two stray men, who were 
Europeans, with the usual result when asking the 
way in any strange place, Quentin accosted an ex- 
tremely dark-skinned Eurasian, who actually knew 
something about the locality. He explained with 
an air of feverish eagerness that he knew Mister 
Radstock, and that Rosemary Villa was a large 
house standing on the summit of a steep ridge a 
short distance away. He even went so far as to 
accompany him to a narrow iron gate which opened 
on to a flight of stone steps. 

A low moon had risen, and the garden lay under 
long, mystical shadows, the cannas and irises colour- 
less under its rays, and white shawls of jessamine 
and the hanging festoons of acacia gleaming whitely 
in the strangeness of the light. 

Dillon went up the steps and found himself in 
a terrace garden, in the center of which there was 
a small pond covered with lotus in flower, and sur- 
rounded by high coarse grasses. A moss-grown im- 
age of grotesque shape stood in the centre of the 
miniature lake, and tiny broken moonbeams fell 
through the branches of tall palm trees overhead. 
He could not distinguish very much in the unearthly 
light, except that though the grounds around Rose- 
mary Villa were spacious and impressive, they were 
not well kept, for the path where he walked was 
grass grown, and he; started aside quickly as a little 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 85 

shadowy creature slid along the ground past him 
into the undergrowth. Quentin had no liking for 
snakes, and he went onwards towards the veranda. 

The house was, as Radstock had said, a very large 
one, and the sharp outline of the brown roof was 
picturesquely silhouetted against the sky, where some 
white, moonlit clouds drifted very slowly. The 
veranda was in deep shadow, and on the upper story 
the light from wide open windows mingled with 
the dim clearness outside. There was no other in- 
dication that the household was not asleep, for the 
long row of closed windows beyond were entirely 
dark. A colony of glow-worms hung on the creep- 
ers, shining mistily, and the heavy thud of the Dur- 
wan’ s stick came round the house at his approach. 

The one thought uppermost in Quentin Dillon’s 
mind was that he wanted to see Marion Keith, and 
to satisfy himself that Mrs. Radstock was a suitable 
person for her to be with. He was so wretchedly 
uneasy on the point, and found so little consolation 
when he thought of Radstock and Nesbit, that even 
his physical weariness fell away, and he came to a 
standstill as the Durwan whined at him in nasal 
tones and demanded what he wanted. With great 
difficulty on both sides Quentin made it clear that he 
wished to go in and see Radstock Sahib, and the 
Durwan insisted that Radstock Sahib was not in 
the habit of receiving guests whom he did not ex- 
pect. The word “hookum” played a large part in 
his complaint, but when Quentin, in sheer despera- 
tion, handed him a rupee, he went to a door at the 


86 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


further side of the house and, as it seemed to Dillon, 
scratched rather than knocked on it. 

The door was opened, and the voice of Radstock, 
raised in sharp and angry invective, replied to the 
Durwan’ s cringing announcement that a Sahib wished 
to see the Sahib. Dillon hurried forward and, as 
he appeared in the shaft of light, Radstock’s manner 
changed at once. 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “What’s brought 
you here?” 

Dillon, without waiting to be invited, walked into 
the large, lofty room, where a number of lizards 
played and made dry and rattling noises up near 
the ceiling. The legs of the writing-table which 
stood in the centre of a worn and discoloured spread 
of chittai, were placed in wooden dishes of oil to 
prevent the attack of white ants, and a punka-proof 
lamp lighted the room indifferently, leaving the cor- 
ners in heavy shadow. It was hot and stifling, and 
the dejected mat punka hung listless from the cob- 
web-covered poles overhead. 

In the sanctum, which was apparently Radstock’s 
private apartment, there was not the smallest sign 
of wealth or even moderate comfort, and Quentin 
sat down in a long chair and looked around him 
curiously. With his shadow thrown hugely on the 
wall behind him, Radstock stood watching his unin- 
vited guest. He seemed doubtful as to whether he 
intended to bully him or whether he would appear 
polite, and on the whole his instinct inclined to- 
wards the latter course. 

“I suppose you wanted to ask me something?” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


87 

he said, sitting down. “And as you are here, I 
may as well show you the rooms we intend to use. 
But, first of all, what brought you here?” 

“I came to ask whether, when I collect the flock, 
I am to splash a bit,” Dillon said lazily. “You 
didn’t make it clear. Nesbit couldn’t say, when I 
met him to-night, and as I am to begin my social 
career at once I want more information. I thought 
of hiring a car, for instance, and when I come to 
the house, do I come as a friend of the family?” 

“Hiring a car? Have you any idea of what 
that will cost you?” 

“Not the smallest,” Dillon said, only just remem- 
bering in time not to add that the keep of his own 
car had run into pretty tall figures. “I can drive,” 
he added, “so that would save a chauffeur. On the 
whole, I think there is something to be said for 
doing the thing well.” 

Radstock grumbled to himself. “Do it at your 
own risk,” he said fractiously. “I didn’t bargain 
for style. And as for your footing here, I won’t 
have you taking everything for granted like this.” 

“Which is exactly what I am not doing,” Dillon 
replied pacifically. “I am asking you to put me 
straight about it.” 

“I’ll think it over,” Radstock said sharply. “Come 
now and look at the rooms.” 

He went to a roughly-constructed door which 
opened into a passage, and led Quentin to the back 
of the house. There was another entrance, which 
could be used by the members of the so-called club, 
and the rooms which Radstock proposed to set at 


88 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


their disposal were swept and garnished. Mirrors 
hung on the walls and a few pictures, which filled 
Quentin with utter disgust. There was a large table 
covered with green baize cloth in the centre of each 
room, roulette boards and the toy-like appliances for 
petits chevaux. In these rooms there was electric 
light; Radstock turned it on with the pride of a 
child and pointed out all the advantages of such a 
well-ordered place. 

“Suppose we introduce one of the wrong sort by 
accident, won’t all this give us away?” Quentin 
asked. 

“You’ve got to make sure. That’s what you’re 
there for,” Radstock retorted. “I can’t tout around 
on my own account — it wouldn’t be good form.” 

He became restless as he spoke and evidently 
anxious that Dillon should leave, and once or twice 
he glanced towards the door. “Keep in with Nes- 
bit,” he said in warning tones. “He has put a good 
deal into the place, and, besides, he’s powerful.” 

“You didn’t let him in without putting a noose 
over his head, surely?” Quentin asked with a smile. 

“I’ve got him behind rails” — Radstock bit his 
fingers — “but it’s rather a glass-house arrangement 
for all of us, except you.” He shot out the words 
viciously. “You are roped up, Dillon, and don’t 
you forget it. I’m not displeased with your lofty 
ways and all that — they’ll do very well, but it’s 
no use your thinking that you can put it over me — 
or Nesbit, for that matter.” 

He turned as he spoke and listened attentively, 
and then, making a sign to Dillon to follow, went 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 89 

towards the door, but before he reached it, it opened, 
and a woman stood there looking at them. 

Directly he saw her, Quentin Dillon realised that 
Radstock had married a woman considerably older 
than himself; either that, or the climate had aged 
her and made her look very much the older of the 
two. She was dark and wrinkled, and her hair was 
dyed a heavy black. The eyes under her painted 
eyebrows were sombre and rather menacing, even 
when she smiled, and she gave the impression of a 
passionate recklessness well under control. What 
struck Quentin most forcibly in his first glance at her 
was that she looked like a modern hag. She was 
dressed in absurdly youthful clothes and wore a 
great quantity of jewellery, selected without the 
smallest reference to good taste, and though she 
spoke to Radstock her eyes never for a moment left 
Quentin’s face. 

“I fancied I heard voices,” she said with a dread- 
ful kind of geniality. “Is this Dillon?” She used 
no prefix, and she did not hold out her hand or stoop 
in any way to the smallest courtesies of life; she only 
went on talking, speaking to Quentin. 

“I am glad to see you for myself,” she said, ap- 
praising him with her deep-set eyes. “Miss Keith, 
my niece, spoke of you. She said you had been of 
some service to her on the voyage.” 

“Very little, I’m afraid,” Quentin replied. 

“She would like to see you,” Mrs. Radstock went 
on, “and I see no special reason against it. You and 
she will have to meet from time to time. Of course 
you understand the position?” 


9 ° 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“I am learning it,” he said. He thought as he 
looked at her that he had never before seen a woman 
who appeared so entirely devoid of what, for want 
of a better phrase, is called “feminine charm.” 

“Then you can go upstairs, and you will find her 
in the drawing-room. She is tired, and you cannot 
stay long; please remember that.” 

For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. 
Radstock, cheap, vulgar and greedy, had fallen away 
into momentary nothingness, and the shadows from 
outside the house seemed to creep close to the win- 
dows as though to listen, standing suspended in a 
tense moment, which passed like a flash, as Quentin 
walked through the door and went along the passage 
into the hall, and on up the wide, shallow steps of 
the staircase. 

“What do you think of him?” Radstock asked, 
looking white and pallid in contrast to his wife. He 
was evidently anxious to know her mind, and spoke 
in an apologetic and nearly diffident tone of voice. 

The bangles on her arms clashed as she made a 
movement with her hands. “I have never trusted 
a man with brown eyes,” she said moodily. “I ex- 
pected something different.” 

“So did I,” he agreed, “but Dillon will do.” 

“That girl likes him.” She shot a look at Rad- 
stock. “I haven’t told her anything yet.” 

“I shouldn’t.” He turned off the lights and they 
went back to the untidy lair at the front of the house. 
“Time enough if she plays the fool. You may not 
like Dillon, Mildred, but he’s going to pull the chest- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


9i 

nuts out of the fire all right; it’s the girl I’m doubt- 
ful about.” 

“Leave her to me,” Mrs. Radstock said firmly. 
“I can manage her.” 

“I know.” He lighted a stump of a cigar and 
they sat one on either side of the table, looking at 
each other silently* 


CHAPTER VIII 


The drawing-room was wide and filled with a jum- 
ble of furniture. Small carved tables, an upright 
piano covered with draperies, its back to the room, 
and chairs of many sorts and sizes filled the place 
to overflowing. Bead curtains hung before the 
doors and tinkled as Dillon passed through them, 
and the plaster walls were decorated with fans and 
a silk dado in antiquated Victorian taste. Outside, 
the fireflies danced over the palm trees, and one or 
two even penetrated into the drawing-room, spar- 
kling faintly against the walls. No cooling breeze 
came in from the night outside, and the lamps drew 
hosts of winged creatures towards their light. 

As he came into the room, Marion turned and rose 
to greet him. She looked wonderfully fair in a black 
evening dress, and her hair shone in the light like 
gold. Her grey eyes were full of welcome, and in 
the room so ill-suited to her as a background she 
stood up like a tall white lily, as Quentin bowed him- 
self before her in spirit. 

“You?” she said with a soft laugh of pleasure. 
“I am glad you have come. It is rather strange in 
this house.” 

“Shall we go on to the veranda?” he suggested, 
and they walked out together and leant on the wide 
rails. “If there was only a sea running below us, 
it would be like the Thebaw’s Queen over again.” 

92 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


93 

“The Thebaw’s Queen seems ages ago already,” 
she said half sadly. “I’m in the blues, and feel that 
the world is all a fleeting show.” 

“How do you like Aunt Mildred?” he asked. 

“She has been very kind.” Marion dwelt on the 
word. “Already she has spent a small fortune on 
me in clothes, for it appears that I am to be made 
a social success. I like clothes — naturally — but I 
don’t like being given quite so many all at once. It 
takes one’s breath away.” 

“Anything else?” he asked. 

“Yes, heaps of other things, only I don’t want 
you to go off with the idea that I’m a temperamental 
grumbler. Frankly, I can’t bear my uncle. I went 
for a drive with him round the lakes, and before we 
got in I would have exchanged him for a chimpanzee 
out of the Zoo.” 

“Wasn’t he — what did he do?” Dillon asked 
fiercely. 

“Nothing really. He had no need to. I am 
sure he is a liar, for he can’t look you in the face, 
and I don’t like his friend Mr. Nesbit who came 
with us.” 

Dillon said nothing, he only drew a long breath. 

“As for my aunt, when you get over her looks, 

I think she is rather attractive — oh yes, she is ” 

she stopped him as he was about to reply. “But 
I am a wretch to talk as I do of them, seeing what 
my position is in their house. What puzzles me 
most is this” — she bent forward and talked in a 
carefully-lowered voice. “I told you that Aunt 
Mildred spent a small fortune on clothes for me. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


94 

When next you see me I shall be most desperately 
smart, so far as Rangoon can go; but all the same, 
if you won’t think me hopelessly vulgar for saying it, 
I do not believe that they are immensely rich. The 
house is hardly furnished, beyond that terrible draw- 
ing-room, and the garden is only a beautiful wilder- 
ness. There seem to be a lot of servants, but very 
queer, unsatisfactory creatures, and I feel as if I 
was living with people who are keeping up a pre- 
tence all the time.” 

“Why do you think so?” he asked. 

“I can’t tell. One knows these things instinc- 
tively. At home we never pretended anything, and 
here I feel” — she gave a tiny shiver — “that it may 
be that it is better to pretend.” 

“And they are kind to you?” he said earnestly. 

“Very kind. Uncle Rad, as he prefers to be 
called, is horribly kind. He tells me that I shall 
have a perfectly glorious time of it here, and that 
I shall be what he describes as ‘a ballroom favour- 
ite.’ ” She laughed in spite of herself. “Mr. Nes- 
bit is also kind.” A tiny pause followed the mention 
of his name, and then she spoke again with a sudden 
rush of words. “But what are we, Mr. Dillon? 
Some people know us and others certainly do not 
and, I should say, do not want to. We passed all 
the world as we drove round the lakes, and I came 
to the conclusion that we don’t really belong to it.” 

“Perhaps there are several worlds,” he suggested. 

“Ah, yes, I think that is so,” she replied. “And 
whatever you think of me for saying all this, you 
must not imagine that I mind. It is only curiosity.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


95 

“I don’t misunderstand you.” He longed to put 
his hand over the white little hand that lay so close 
to his own on the balustrade. “I was only think- 
ing that it isn’t going to be easy for you, Miss 
Keith.” 

“Home is so far away,” she said sadly. “Ex- 
cept for you, there is no one I can speak my mind 
out to. Tell me of yourself. What have you done 
all day? I know that Uncle Rad went to see you. 
How did you and he get on?” 

“Quite well. We understood one another, or, at 
any rate, I understood him, and he said I would 
‘do.’ ” 

“I am glad of that,” she said with an unmistak- 
able note of thankfulness in her voice. 

“Are you? And why?” 

“Because you won’t go away.” Her hand actu- 
ally did touch his, but whether by accident or not, 
he could not tell, only a wild electric thrill went 
through him, and he held himself back with an 
effort. He longed so madly to take her in his arms 
and kiss her until her pale face was red under his 
lips; and he felt the passion of his soul stir a re- 
sponse from her. But he only made some stupidly 
ordinary remark, and as he did so, the tinkling of 
the bead curtains warned him that they were about 
to be disturbed. 

Mrs. Radstock came into the room and looked 
round her, not sharply, but with her steady, heavy 
gaze, as though it were piercing through the ex- 
ternals of what she saw rather than merely looking 
at the outside of things. At her coming, Marion’s 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


96 

expression changed; the wistfulness of the exile was 
hidden away in a moment as she went back into the 
room. It was only the tiniest straw, but as Quentin 
watched her it made him wonder whether it were 
possible that Marion Keith was already a little 
afraid of her aunt. If she were, however, she 
showed nothing of her feelings, and Mrs. Radstock 
put her hand caressingly on the girl’s shoulder. 

“You are dead tired,” she said. “Don’t stay up 
any longer. Mr. Dillon is going at once.” There 
was something at once subduing and chilling in her 
voice and manner, and Quentin felt his own disad- 
vantage. Mrs. Radstock was going to be his foe 
where Marion was concerned; his “lady sweet and 
kind” must have felt it also, for she smiled at him 
as though trying to offer him consolation for her 
aunt’s rather abrupt dismissal. She was a little de- 
pressed in spite of her smile, he could tell that. 

“I suppose I am tired,” she said. “I have done 
more in one day than I used to do in a year. Good 
night, Mr. Dillon.” 

Mrs. Radstock, still with her arm across Marion’s 
shoulder, took her to the door and so intercepted 
any chance of touching hands or exchange of glances. 
On the whole, she did it well. 

“My niece,” Mrs. Radstock said, coming back 
from the jangling curtains, “is in my charge.” She 
said nothing more, and gave no explanation of any 
kind, but her eyes were quite sufficiently expressive 
to inform Quentin of all that she deliberately left 
unsaid. 

When he had left the house, Quentin thought 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


97 

steadily of Marion Keith’s aunt. She was formid- 
able, and her hawk-like nose, and sharp, observant 
eyes gave her a curiously cruel effect. Not for a 
moment did he believe in her inferred affection for 
the girl, and the very fact that she clothed her 
rough abruptness in a cloak of kindness, did not in 
any way hide the realities of the situation. Every- 
thing Marion had told him only increased his un- 
easy suspicions, and it jarred unspeakably to think 
that she was placed in such an equivocal position. 
The Radstocks were likely to be suspect in the eyes 
of their world, and Quentin pictured occasions upon 
which Marion would suffer from the small slings and 
arrows hurled at her by a limited community, who 
would only regard her as “one of the gang.” He 
was positive that Marion was to be exploited, and 
that in some way she entered into the calculations 
of her aunt and uncle. 

As for himself, he was powerless to do anything, 
at least for the present. The recklessness with 
which he had exchanged identities with Dillon had 
given him no time to make inquiries as to what he 
actually did inherit when he undertook to play the 
part. Dillon might have been a forger or a thief, he 
might — though he certainly didn’t look like it — have 
committed murder. There was no saying what he 
might or might not have done. Radstock had made 
no bones about it that, in any case, Dillon was down 
and under if exposure followed upon the rather risky 
game in which they were all engaged. In fact the 
air was thick with menace, and Quentin admitted 
that he did not like the look of things in the least. 


98 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


Radstock alone, or backed by Nesbit, was not 
really formidable, because Quentin understood how 
to tackle men, but the addition of Mrs. Rad com- 
plicated things. To fight her meant a battle of 
wits, and besides, there was no use alarming Marion, 
who knew nothing of the facts. She believed that 
her aunt was kind, and that her uncle, at any rate, 
meant well. What end would be gained by putting 
her on her guard and spoiling any peace which might 
exist for her so long as she believed in them? 

The moonlight played hide and seek with the 
black shadows of the palms and the darkness of the 
towering teak trees, and all the magic of the tropic 
night was around him. The hour was late, and 
time moved onwards, for good or ill, as the wind was 
swinging the bells that hung in a little pagoda at the 
end of Tank Road into music. 

As he regained the town once more, everything 
was still awake and alive; trains were crowded with 
flower-like Burmese girls and a quantity of Eurasians 
dressed in European clothes, and in the cafes people 
still collected, enjoying life after their own fashion. 
It was all like a stage setting, and made only a back- 
ground for a curiously lonely little drama. Into the 
gorgeous and vivid picture he and Marion Keith 
had been swept by the strangest side-wind of fate, 
and they were going to be linked further by circum- 
stances, the trend of which he could only guess. The 
paper lanterns along Hong-Kong Street were gay, 
and a wedding party was taking place in one of the 
noisy houses where the sound of singing came out 
into the air. They were real people, though they 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


99 

brought no sense of reality to Quentin Dillon, and 
more and more he began to feel that the isolation 
of the circumstances was complete. The Europeans 
who lived in the big, magnificent houses behind bril- 
liant gardens and green-painted jinmills would know 
nothing of them, except as figures in local gossip, 
and the second-rate, rather doubtful set into which 
Mrs. Radstock might have pushed her way by sheer 
force, would only stand very wide indeed if diffi- 
culties arose. They would both be branded by their 
associates from the outset. It gave him added near- 
ness to her, but he would have forfeited any ad- 
vantage of such a kind to know that Marion had 
at least one friend who might be trusted. 

She had no one but him, and Quentin smiled rather 
bitterly when he considered that he was probably 
the darkest Ethiopian and the most murkily-spotted 
leopard of the whole collection. His past, of which 
he knew nothing, was damning, and there was no use 
attempting to explain things yet. 

He walked into the Palm Hotel, and caught a 
glimpse of Nesbit through the open doors of the 
bar. Once more he was struck by the loudness and 
the handsome vulgarity of the man. He was en- 
tertaining some chosen friends, and when he saw 
Dillon he shouted to him to join them. 

With his easy, careless walk, Quentin came to- 
wards them, not hurrying himself in any way, and 
Nesbit introduced him to his companions. Lomax, 
a dark, hardy-looking individual, with coal-black 
hair and pinched features, with a kind of surface 
buoyancy, which forced him to break into song at 


100 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


intervals, and made him use curious and unpleasant 
forms of oaths with which he deliberately peppered 
his remarks. He was in charge of a district some- 
where up the river, and had leave to spend and 
money to burn. It appeared that he was a married 
man, and regarded the fact as a joke, when he did 
not allude to it as a misfortune. Nesbit’s other 
companion was called “Suffy,” and was a person of 
importance, as his father held a high official position 
on the Lieutenant-Governor’s Council, so that he 
was very much in the “inner set.” He was in the 
Commission, and, so far as Quentin could judge, 
spent a great deal of his time in Rangoon. 

On the whole, Dillon preferred him to the others. 
There was some touch of grace in his rather inef- 
fectual personality, and his pale blue eyes and fair 
hair lent him a suggestion of belated boyishness. 
He was going bald very young, and had a turn for 
dissipation which already gave him an ugly puffi- 
ness around his eyes, and he evidently considered 
Nesbit and Lomax to be splendid fellows. They 
deferred to him in a way which flattered his vanity, 
and listened to his lies with attention. They ac- 
claimed him as a “sportsman,” and he talked of his 
father with a freedom and liberty of criticism which 
delighted his hearers. 

Quentin summed him up as he stood drinking his 
long iced peg slowly. The type was by no means 
unfamiliar. Jack Rutherford was one of those 
weaklings who enjoy life with an artless verve, and 
love low things as some men love art or music. He 
hated to be alone, and needed the applause of his 


IOI 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

fellows, and some twist in his nature prevented him 
from being honest. He never paid his debts, and 
bragged of it, taking pride in the fact, and Hansara, 
his district, was the most completely ill-managed 
in Burma. Insignificant, cheery and raffish, he ac- 
cepted Dillon with a touch of condescension, and 
stared at him with his wide, blue eyes. 

“Any friend of Nesbit’s is a friend of mine,” he 
remarked, and he ordered drinks all round. 

“He’s just left Government House,” Lomax ex- 
plained, “and feels rather on the weary side, don’t 
you, Suffy?” and then he explained that “Suffy” 
was so called because of his habit of remarking 
U Q a me suffit” 

“I’ll tell you what I intend to do,” Rutherford 
said. He had got to the stage of intoxication when 
he wished to explain everything in careful detail. “I 
intend to get the girl invited to Government House. 
My mother can see to that. She knew Lady Smythe 
when she was only Mrs. Smith, and she can pull 
strings.” 

Nesbit nodded and looked at Lomax. “That’s 
an idea,” he said. 

“I tell you,” Rutherford went on, “I took a fancy 
to her, I really did. She’s awfully good form. I 
can’t think how Mrs. Rad managed it — her niece, 
too — if that’s anywhere near the truth. I won’t 
have you keeping her to yourself, Nesbit; there ain’t 
many girls in Rangoon . . .” 

“And they’ve all turned you down,” Lomax said, 
dancing a few steps on the floor and laughing im- 


102 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

moderately. “Poor old Suffy; but you aren’t lonely, 
all the same.” 

The joke seemed an excellent one and a chorus of 
laughter followed it, while Dillon sat down in a 
long chair and remained silent. 

“We’re speaking of a certain Miss Keith, whom 
you may not have heard of,” Lomax explained. 
“Suffy, with his usual ardour, is in love with the 
lady. Nesbit got a start, because he knows Mrs. 
Rad and she likes him so much; he’ll help us out if 
he can.” 

“Dillon isn’t interested in skirts,” Nesbit said 
carelessly. “Anyhow, Miss Keith is charming — 
quite charming.” He looked like a satisfied pasha 
as he spoke. “I don’t mind introducing her to you, 
Rutherford, because I’d like her to have a really 
good show here, and Mrs. Rad can’t do very much 
where society is concerned.” 

They were indulging in all the exuberance of 
self-betrayal, and from his long chair Quentin Dillon 
wondered at them. Suffy was intolerably garrulous 
and loose of tongue, Lomax crafty and sly and the 
most unashamed of toadies, Nesbit conscious always 
of a hidden fear that his dignity was not sufficiently 
respected. None of them had the remotest idea 
of the value of reserve, and they proclaimed them- 
selves in their speech. Out of their own mouths 
came their condemnation. Had Quentin been likely 
to harbour any illusions as to what they were, they 
would have disillusioned him as they pursued their 
coarse inanities with noisy gusts of laughter, stalk- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


103 

ing nakedly unashamed before the eyes of the man 
who watched them quietly and kept himself aloof. 

“You aren’t saying much,” Rutherford said when 
the conversation languished a little. “I expect 
you’re one of the silent sort.” 

“He hasn’t got the hang of things yet,” Nesbit 
explained. “Only arrived to-day. Lucky fellow, he 
is on his own, with nothing to do.” 

Lomax pricked up his ears. “Globe trotting?” 
he asked. 

“By Jove.” The immediate inference that Dil- 
lon was a rich man made him deferential, and he 
offered to take him round. “You must have a good 
time.” 

“I’ll take you up to Government House,” Ruth- 
erford said. “It’s as well to write your name in 
the book, and you’ll probably get invitations.” 

“He ought to, certainly,” Lomax remarked, and 
Nesbit said nothing. The fact that he was not on 
the Lieutenant-Governor’s entertainment list was a 
sore point with him, so he swaggered with his elbows 
and remarked that “as an innkeeper” he could not 
expect to be acceptable. 

“It’s the old idea,” he said loftily; “they bring 
it out from England, that a gentleman mayn’t do 
certain things. For myself, I stick to it that a gen- 
tleman can do anything — dam’ well anything.” 

“Absolutely,” Lomax agreed, and Suffy was of 
the same mind as the others. 

It was very late before Dillon got to bed, and 
he had further food for thought. His galere was 
a dreadful one, and he saw that he must watch him- 


104 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


self carefully or he would find that they resented 
him. If they had the smallest suspicion that he 
looked upon them with contempt, he would be ostra- 
cised, and unable to carry on the pretence of good 
fellowship. Lomax was a cheap creature, and 
would be easy to dupe; Rutherford, for all his weak- 
ness and obvious viciousness, was better than he, 
and was rather a pigeon than a hawk; only Nesbit 
of the trio stood out as something worse than the 
rest because he had energy. If he were to be of any 
use to Marion Keith he knew that he must keep 
his anger in subjection. They could not really harm 
her any more than a gang of street urchins could 
defile the palace of a queen by throwing mud at 
the walls. 


CHAPTER IX 


Marion Keith, having come out of a land where 
everything was covered with the magic of rainbow 
mists and dreams, felt very much as though she had 
exchanged the past for a new life, and that all which 
had been so familiar might easily have happened cen- 
turies before she was re-born. 

She was woman enough to know that her new 
clothes made her much more beautiful in an obvious 
way, and that the very contrast between herself 
and her surroundings added to the quality of her 
charm. But behind the change she was really in 
no way altered. From the moment when she had 
wandered into the picture gallery and carried out 
of it with her, not the remembrance of paintings 
hung on a wall, but the clear recollection of Quentin 
Dillon’s lean, clever face and blazing eyes, she 
seemed to have awakened from her dreams. He 
had marked the turning point, and from that day 
onwards her life had become active rather than 
passive. 

Adventures are to the adventurous, even though 
the majority of human beings believe that an event- 
ful life exists only in the imagination of novelists 
who depend upon thrills for the success of their 
stories. Marion Keith did not suggest melodrama. 
Her beauty belonged to the exclusive and not the 
105 


10 6 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

exotic type; she was flame-like in the sense that a 
diamond is full of fire, and if you took off her silk 
stockings you might expect to find golden Mercury 
wings on her small heels. Her face was like a 
flower, and there was always a suggestion of things 
sweet and natural about her, and behind the very 
fragility of her charm there lay the promise of 
deeper forces. Her life had been a life apart, and 
had not armed her for a conflict, or for a battle- 
field where people stabbed, grabbed and jostled one 
another, nor had she yet suffered. The pain of part- 
ing with the old things had been tempered for her 
by a youthful desire to experience something new, 
and she was still so much interested in the vividness 
of it all that fear had not touched her, or doubt — 
beyond a questioning sense of having come into close 
contact with lives which were not lived on the sur- 
face. Life turned no menacing face towards Mar- 
ion Keith in the first weeks of her stay in Rosemary 
Villa, and she stood there happily enough, greeting 
the future with a smile. 

Mrs. Radstock, with her dark face and occa- 
sional attacks of heavy, silent gloom, had been con- 
sistently kind to her. Sometimes she watched her 
niece with a curiously intent expression, and she had 
been pleased with the transformation which the 
clothes she had chosen worked upon Marion. She 
was given, at times, to bitter outbursts of anger 
towards the ruling elements of Rangoon society. 
Lady Smythe, wife of the Lieutenant-Governor, ig- 
nored her, and neither she nor her husband were 
invited to even the most rag-tag parties held inside 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


107 

the grounds of Government House. She explained 
to Marion as they sat in the gaunt dining-room with 
its open doors, ragged, weather-stained blinds tem- 
pering the fierce light, that Lady Smythe was her- 
self not received in London society. She was a 
short, painted woman, with a complacent husband, 
and the scandal of her liaison with a high official 
had been overlooked, chiefly because Sir Wilfred 
Smythe had so sedulously condoned it. As the price 
of his condonation, he had been pushed into place 
and power with the combined forces of his wife and 
the high official behind him, so that from Smith he 
had become Smythe, and from running a good chance 
of mouldering in an up-country station, he was now 
lord of all he surveyed. Lady Smythe put on in- 
sufferable airs, and as the liaison was now a thing 
of the past, she sat in the most vindictive judgment 
upon the rest of the world. 

It was therefore a surprise to Mrs. Radstock 
when a red-coated chuprassi came to her doors with 
a large gilt-edged invitation card, which informed 
her that Lady Smythe and the Lieutenant-Governor 
were desirous of her company and that of her hus- 
band and Miss Keith at a ball to be given at Gov- 
ernment House. 

“If she has been rude to you, Aunt Mildred, of 
course we shall not go,” Marion said, tilting up her 
chin. She had the clan feeling which even threw 
its mantle over her uncle, for whom she had no lik- 
ing at all. 

Mrs. Radstock frowned heavily at the card. 
“Jack Rutherford is at the back of it,” she said. 


io8 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Mrs. Rutherford knows too much about Lady 
Smythe. All the same, it might be well to accept.” 
She signed the book, and the kitmutgar, who was 
waiting by her elbow, fled rapidly from the room. 

“But we cannot go,” Marion repeated. Her ears 
were still tingling from stories of slights heaped 
upon Mrs. Radstock, and she was astonished to 
think that anyone who looked so determined as her 
Aunt Mildred could waver in the face of so partic- 
ularly cheap a bribe. 

Evidently Mrs. Radstock did not intend to argue 
the question, as she called in her harsh voice for the 
khansanah, who usually appeared at that hour with 
his account book, and his coming inevitably heralded 
a furious quarrel in fluent Hindustani. 

She felt that what her aunt had said of Jack Ruth- 
erford was probably true. That garrulous and sen- 
timental young man had made his appearance at 
Rosemary Villa very shortly after her arrival, and 
there was no doubt why he came there. He had 
nothing to recommend him in the eyes of Marion 
Keith, but her uncle appeared to encourage his vis- 
its and was sickeningly deferential to him, and Mrs. 
Radstock treated him with a touch of warmth. 

He was less objectionable than Nesbit, who came 
and went frequently, and also than Lomax, who had 
attempted to make love to Marion the first time he 
found himself alone with her. 

As she reviewed the habitues of Rosemary Villa, 
she shuddered slightly. They had all one funda- 
mental likeness, and that was that they showed not 
the smallest deference towards anyone in the house. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 109 

Rutherford spoke with contemptuous familiarity to 
her uncle, and laughed at Mrs. Radstock; Nesbit 
ordered the servants about as though he were in his 
own house; and Lomax did not trouble to use his 
better manners which he assumed whenever he felt 
himself to be with his social superiors. 

Why was it? she asked herself. Was it because 
of something they had done, these unknown relatives 
of hers, or was it their poverty? Yet they enter- 
tained in a way which seemed lavish to her unaccus- 
tomed eyes. Very few women came to the house at 
all, and they were all too obviously second-rate. She 
had sat inwardly scornful and outwardly shy in the 
midst of talk which she thought futile and vulgar, 
and suffered to feel that her aunt, for whom she 
had a sincere liking, played down as readily as her 
uncle, directly they were in public together. The 
women Mrs. Radstock invited, though only very 
occasionally, it was true, were a form of window 
dressing, faded and cheap, but put there to create 
the impression that the company at Rosemary Villa 
was not wholly masculine. 

She wandered out into the veranda, and looked 
at the maddening glories of the garden, with its 
furious wealth of flower and beauty, and she thought 
of Quentin Dillon. He was not among the welcome 
guests of the house, and when he came there another 
change took place. Uncle Rad grew lofty and even 
hectoring in his demeanour, and Mrs. Radstock 
froze into silence. The one person whom they 
could afford to crush or exhibit a contempt towards, 
was the last man who suggested such an attitude. 


no 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


Marion compared him inwardly with Nesbit — 
flushed, common and domineering — and the shadowy 
Rutherford who followed her like a dog. Lomax 
seemed beneath any comparison. Amongst these 
Quentin stood out clearly, his flaming personality 
and his unimpeachable looks and breeding marking 
him of another order. Yet they did not trouble to 
show the least civility towards him, and Mrs. Rad- 
stock discouraged his visits to the house. She ap- 
peared to regard his coming at all as a piece of ef- 
frontery, and Marion wondered whether her uncle’s 
“business” was derogatory, but even if it were, they 
were partners. 

Her uncle had looked at him with undisguised 
animosity; Marion had caught the look and remem- 
bered it. Radstock’s moist, whisky-reddened eyes 
were never specially pleasant. But when Quentin 
had come there to dine, Rutherford bringing with 
him a pallid young man who was His Excellency’s 
secretary, Dillon had been treated again to an en- 
tirely different attitude on the part of his host and 
hostess. They had disguised their usual lack of 
courtesy under a show of effusion, and Quentin had 
to all intents and purposes become the guest of the 
evening. Rutherford had brought Bates with him 
— uninvited — with the airy casualness with which he 
usually treated Mrs. Rad, and Bates had behaved 
as though he conferred a favour by being there at 
all, though he evidently liked Dillon, whom he ap- 
peared to regard as being on his own level. 

The more Marion thought of it all, the more 
completely puzzled she became. She had not sue- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


hi 


ceeded in getting a single word alone with Quentin 
since the evening of her arrival, and she longed to 
ask him for his explanation of the mystery. Why 
also did he accept the treatment meted out to him 
— the rudeness of her aunt, and the insolent familiar- 
ity of Radstock? 

The morning stretched out before her, and she 
had nothing at all to do. The emptiness of her 
life weighed upon her, as she looked ahead at the 
vacant hours. Something was in progress in the 
house, for two rooms on the further side were being 
brushed out by the sweeper, and appeared to be 
in process of being set in order, and she wandered 
round the deep paved veranda and looked in. She 
saw the tables covered with green baize, and the 
roulette boards, and ignorant as she was of the 
paraphernalia of a gambling room, she realised at 
once what the rambling quarter of the house con- 
tained, and then her eyes fell on the pictures with 
which the walls were adorned, and, flushing to the 
roots of her hair, she turned away. 

A sick sense of disgust swept through her, and a 
sudden longing to get clear away from it all. Her 
uncle had always been a wretched creature in her 
eyes, and now he appeared intolerably smirched, 
and when she thought of her aunt her confidence 
waned and wavered. 

No wonder that they were all outcasts, and that 
decent society repudiated them. It was awful to 
feel that she made one of such a group. She stood 
very still, and thought with tense concentration. 
Ever since she came there, men had come to the 


1 1 2 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


house without appearing to be on at all intimate 
terms with the Radstocks, and she had taken very- 
little heed of them. She knew that in the East hos- 
pitality was an old-established tradition. The regu- 
lar visitors were Nesbit, Rutherford and Lomax — 
she could not count Dillon in any such list. Some- 
times the men who came to Rosemary Villa dined 
at the house, and sometimes she and her aunt and 
uncle were alone, but even then she had heard 
voices talking in the veranda, long after she was in 
bed, and concluded that nocturnal visits were part of 
the social habits of Rangoon. 

She was able to pass away quickly from all this. 
But what held her frozen was the sudden recollection 
that Dillon was in partnership with her uncle, and 
that he must therefore both know and profit by hav- 
ing a share in running the horrible place. It was 
hateful to think such things of him, and her eyes 
were hot and strained. 

Footsteps came along the veranda, and Mrs. Rad- 
stock hurried round the corner of the house to where 
Marion stood. She must have read the girl’s face 
in a flash, for she spoke at once. 

“I see you have been in your uncle’s rooms,” she 
said, tightening her colourless lips. “Probably it 
has shocked you, but there is no reason for you to be 
shocked. If you knew men as I do, Marion, you 
would not even be surprised.” She drew her away, 
slipping her arm through that of Marion. “They 
gamble there, in a friendly way, and I may as well 
tell you at once that I dislike it intensely.” 

Marion Keith’s sympathy towards her aunt was 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


”3 

expressed in her grey eyes as she looked at the harsh, 
rugged face of the older woman. “Can’t you stop 
Uncle Rad?” she said, and Mrs. Radstock laughed, 
and her laugh was far from pleasant. 

“There, there,” she said, patting Marion’s arm. 
“I would have kept it from you, child. However, 
now that you have found it out for yourself, you can 
enter a little into my own difficulties, and help me 
when you can.” 

“If only I could.” 

“When the time comes, I am sure that you will.” 

Mrs. Radstock went back into the house, and said 
no more. 

But in spite of her aunt’s words, Marion felt a 
deep revulsion of spirit. A thousand small incidents, 
hardly noticed at the time, came back to her, and all 
the fancied security of her life trembled and wavered. 
She was strained and anxious as she sat down in a 
long chair and pressed her hands over her face. 
What were they all indeed, what were they? No 
wonder that the men who came so casually treated 
them as they did; in the fuller light of revelation she 
wondered that they had not behaved rather worse. 
Her uncle’s house was a gambling den, and the 
women who came there were of the kind which Suffy 
Rutherford had described as “the semi-demis,” or 
“not yet caught outs.” She had overheard him say- 
ing this to the thin-lipped, sneering Bates, and the 
point of his remark had entirely escaped her. Now 
it returned to her, and she flushed crimson at the in- 
ference. But she was there and could not escape. 
Rosemary Villa was her home, and her allegiance 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


ii 4 

was instinctively towards her Aunt Mildred. Even 
if Mrs. Radstock lent herself to her husband’s plan 
of making money in such a dubious way, she still 
seemed, in the eyes of her niece, a tragic and even 
dignified figure. 

The glare of the garden smote her eyes, and she 
longed to get away from it, so she went into the 
house and put on her topi, standing before the long 
mirror in her room, looking at her own reflection. 
Already she thought that she looked changed and 
older, as though the passing of an hour had marked 
its heaviness around her eyes. 

She went out of the garden, down the moss-grown 
steps and through the wrought-iron gate, following 
the road past the entrance to the Shwey Dagone. 
Huge plaster dragons with gaping mouths and ver- 
milion-red tongues grimaced at her from the green 
slope where they were ranged, leading to the brown, 
fretted roofs that covered the ascent of a thousand 
steps. The little Burmese women called to her 
cheerfully as they sat surrounded by baskets of roses 
and orchids, selling them to pilgrims who desired to 
acquire merit by placing them before one of the 
hundred shrines on the plateau up above, where the 
Gautama in countless reproductions brooded in eter- 
nal peace under the shadow of the golden Htee. 
What use for her to climb the steps ? she asked her- 
self. The Buddha was far away in Nirvana, and 
cared nothing even for his own butterfly children to 
whom worship was a kind of game. She bought a 
handful of roses and a magenta prayer flag, and 
carried them away with her. Up on the plateau, the 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 115 

wind-blown flame from amber tapers, and the grey 
curling smoke of little joss-sticks, mingled in the air, 
but no Oriental splendour could bring comfort to 
Marion Keith. 

She longed unutterably for the grey skies and acid 
green of her own country, for the sight of purple 
mountains and the fitful glories of distant skies, 
where the whistle of green clover came mournfully 
on the austere air. The intoxication of so much 
scent and colour only distressed her, and she took 
her way, not caring where she went, along a narrow 
kennel, which led her finally into a wide street near 
the river. 

A building at the further end attracted her eye, 
and for a moment a sense of pleasure revived in her. 
The roof was a mass of sea-green mosaic work, 
dragons with staring glass eyes coiled upon it, with 
delicate fins, ivory teeth and claws. Houses, ships 
and bridges were placed at intervals, like a child’s 
playthings, all exquisitely proportioned, and heavy 
stone pillars upheld the long portico which stretched 
the full length of the building, a paper lantern, like 
a burned-out moon, hanging between each space. It 
was a Joss-house, she supposed, and with a faint 
awakening of curiosity she walked up the steps and 
went inside. 

Within, the building was vast and lofty, and great 
gold and black pillars divided it into aisles. In the 
centre, a tank was sunk into the floor, surrounded by 
pots of plants, and at the end furthermost from 
Marion a great rose-red curtain was drawn, hiding 
the wall. On a square of white marble a green 


ii 6 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


china jar held one scented joss-stick, which burned 
with a dim red spark, winking like a drowsy eye, its 
thin spiral of smoke losing itself in the arched roof 
above her head. 

Life, with its smallness and pettiness, fell away 
from her as she stood there, and the immemorial 
greatness of a united Power behind it all, showing a 
different face to different races, uplifted her for a 
moment. She thought of the little church at Ramel- 
ton with its windows set with diamond-shaped panes 
of glass, and square pews upholstered with red rep 
cushions; the smell of dust and mildew that hung 
there, and the wheezy old harmonium, played by 
Miss Loftus, who was nearly as permanent as the 
church itself. How far away it all seemed now, yet 
in her fancy she could hear the crude voices of the 
choir singing with dragging intentness : 

“O Paradise, O Paradise, the world is growing old.” 

She had left those days far behind her now, and 
she was still suffering from the shock of having dis- 
covered to what strange places her destiny had led 
her. The quiet life had gone, and in its stead she 
found herself isolated and alone in a world of horri- 
fying possibilities. How horrifying they were, she 
had not yet entirely fathomed, but the menace of 
the future hung over her like a dark cloud. 

For a time Marion sat in the empty Joss-house 
in the coloured twilight of the atmosphere, and her 
despair lightened a little. As she saw things, she 
was bound to a loyal adherence to her Aunt Mildred. 
Her aunt was of her own house, and though she 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


117 

seemed strong and even domineering, it was clear to 
Marion that she was at the mercy of circumstances. 
It was an hour of extremes and exaggerations in 
feeling for Marion Keith, and her sympathy outran 
her repulsion. A current of fore-ordained evil was 
setting towards her, and the worse part of all was 
to know that Quentin Dillon had a share in the 
traffic of her uncle’s house. 

At length she rose and walked to the door, and 
as she gained the clamorous glare of the day out- 
side, her dazzled eyes caught a glimpse of a car pass- 
ing in the street below the steps. Dillon was sitting 
in it, in the driver’s seat, and beside him Lomax was 
lying back luxuriously. In the back of the car a 
woman, dressed in the most atrociously bad taste, 
sat next to a vapid-looking young man, whom she 
recognised as Lord Amesbury, who was passing 
through Rangoon. Marion knew the woman, she 
was Mrs. Garrat Synd, who lived at the Palm Hotel, 
and of her husband, Suffy Rutherford had said that 
he was “more sinned against than sinning.” 

Quentin in that galere was no better than the 
rest, she told herself furiously. She must cast all 
thought of him out of her heart. She would be 
staunch in her adherence to her Aunt Mildred, and 
in any case, whither could she turn, and what else 
could she do ? She was surrounded by closed doors. 

There are times when the bravest heart feels 
daunted, and the most courageous spirit is suddenly 
lonely and desolate; and Marion Keith lacked 
neither courage nor resourcefulness. But she was 
very young and very unhappy, and as she looked 


1 1 8 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

around her world she did not find a single friendly 
face, or if there were friendly faces, it only made 
matters worse, seeing that such falseness lay behind. 

With weary steps she retraced the streets to the 
house, cold and sick at heart amid all the wealth of 
colour and glory of blossom around her. 


CHAPTER X 


As the date of the ball at Government House drew 
near, Mrs. Radstock spoke of it again to Marion. 
It had been decided that she was to go with her 
aunt, but Uncle Rad was, as he said, “not a dancing 
man,” and preferred to stay away. Marion believed 
in her own heart that he funked it, and that, in spite 
of the fact that he constantly spoke of the Lieuten- 
ant-Governor and his wife with contempt and no 
little coarseness, he preferred not to risk a personal 
encounter with either of them. Quentin Dillon, 
whom she had avoided carefully, was going to be at 
the ball, having received an invitation because Lord 
Amesbury, who had attached himself to Dillon, 
said he wouldn’t go without him, and Bates, the 
Lieutenant-Governor’s secretary, had wangled it for 
him in some fashion of his own. 

Marion dressed herself for the event with less 
pleasure than she had ever felt at the prospect of a 
dance, yet all dances known to her, heretofore, would 
pale into complete insignificance beside the gorgeous 
display which was to unfold before her eyes that 
night. She would have liked to wear one of her old 
dresses, but Mrs. Radstock was firm on the point, 
and came to her room to see that she actually 
adorned herself in silver tissue and blue gauze, and 
with her golden hair waved for the occasion Marion 


120 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

hardly recognised her own reflection in the mirror on 
the wall. 

“Put a little colour on your cheeks,” Mrs. Rad- 
stock said, opening a small case which she carried, 
“and your lips, child, you look so white.” 

“Please don’t ask me to,” Marion objected. “I 
never have, Aunt Mildred.” 

“Do as I tell you,” her aunt said sharply, and 
a glance at her face informed Marion that she must 
decide whether or not the question was worth a row. 

“Very well,” she said mutinously. After all, it 
hardly mattered. She and her aunt were invited 
guests because Rutherford’s mother had once been 
a go-between in the ugly, sordid old story of Lady 
Smythe’s affairs with Lord Stenhaven, who was now 
doddering into a respectable grave. Dillon was go- 
ing because he had reduced Amesbury to the condi- 
tion of a friendly puppy, and was leading him on a 
string, whither he would. It was all of a piece, and 
if Marion herself was to look in keeping with the 
rest of them, what matter? She dashed on a dab 
of rouge, with a defiant hand, and reddened her lips 
a vivid carmine, turning to her aunt when she had 
done so. 

“Shall I do?” she asked, and Mrs. Radstock 
nodded. 

Nesbit was dining at Rosemary Villa, to keep her 
uncle company, and his temper was that of an exas- 
perated man. He spread himself largely through 
dinner, and spoke of his relations in England who 
wouldn’t have condescended to know the Smythes if 
they had met in London. He accorded Marion a 


I 2 I 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

number of exaggerated compliments, and squeezed 
her shoulders, when he held her cloak for her, with 
a rough fury that startled her. He seemed to feel 
that she was closer to him than she had been, and 
just at the last he mentioned Dillon. 

“It’s a funny joke Dillon getting in there,” he said 
with heavy sarcasm. “I’m not sorry either. When 
people who come from nowhere stick up their noses 
and put on airs, it serves them right. Dillon of all 
men ! By George, it does make me laugh.” 

It also made Radstock laugh, for he rocked about 
in his chair and said that Dillon was “a corker,” and 
“the blue limit,” and various other things, adding 
that he couldn’t help admiring his “neck.” 

“He’s shaped much better than I thought,” he 
said, and then he caught Mrs. Radstock’s eye and 
relapsed into silence. 

No one could have started out for a night’s pleas- 
ure with more wretchedly disgusted feelings than 
Marion Keith, and she got into the hired carriage 
with her aunt, her shoulders still red from the pres- 
sure of Nesbit’s gripping hands. She hated him 
actively now, and when the kotchwan had shouted at 
the horses and they started off with a jerk, she turned 
to her aunt. 

“I can’t stand much more of Mr. Nesbit,” she 
said. “He is most offensive.” 

Mrs. Radstock appeared to be occupied with her 
own thoughts, but she turned to the girl, and her 
sombre eyes dwelt upon her. “I advise you not to 
offend him,” she said coldly, “You are inexperi- 
enced, Marion, but you must understand that it is 


122 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


impossible for you to be on bad terms with your 
uncle’s friends.” 

“Am I to swallow them all?” Marion asked. 

“All,” her aunt replied. “I quite see that it is 
awkward; as for Dillon, he matters very little; but 
Nesbit is” — she paused and appeared to search for 
a suitable word — “I should describe him as a rough 
diamond.” 

“I think you are very charitable,” Marion gave a 
hard little laugh. “Is he to be allowed to make love 
to me?” 

Mrs. Radstock patted her arm. “Oh, that . . 
she said carelessly. “When you know more of men, 
you will realize that any girl with a pretty face has 
to expect something of the kind.” 

They relapsed into silence as the carriage drove 
on and Marion stared through the window. Mov- 
ing lights came along all the roads, and the feeling 
of suppressed excitement touched her in spite of her- 
self, as the pace slackened and they followed in the 
wake of a long string of carriages and motors, all 
going to Government House. 

The strong perfume of flowering shrubs hung in 
the air, and beside the tall gates the trees were 
adorned to the very crest with thousands of Chinese 
lanterns, and the paths and walks were outlined with 
small lamps of coloured glass. In a strong bay of 
light at the entrance of the house a regiment of 
servants and orderlies waited, and people in evening 
dress passed onward up the red-carpeted steps. 

With so many mixed feelings to contend with, the 
long, slow approach seemed interminable to both 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 123 

Marion Keith and her aunt, and when at last they 
arrived and the carriage came to a standstill, Marion 
would have given ten years of her life to have turned 
back and driven away again. 

Inside the huge entrance hall, Bates and two 
A.D.C.’s urged congested groups of guests up 
the steps, which were flanked by native guards in 
brilliant uniforms, standing immovable as they held 
their lances stiffly and looked away over the heads of 
the surging, chattering crowd. Bates accorded only 
a very cursory politeness to his late hostess, but he 
touched Marion’s arm as she passed, and told her 
to keep him a dance “like a good girl.” 

No one spoke to them in the cloak-room, where 
everything seemed a mass of flimsy satins and chif- 
fons, white shoulders and jewels, but Marion real- 
ised that she and her aunt were a source of interest, 
for they were looked at curiously and with the ap- 
praising stare of polite hostility. 

At the entrance to the great ball-room Mrs. Rad- 
stock grew nervous, and her evident lack of self- 
confidence made its way to Marion’s heart as their 
names were called out by Stretton, who pretended he 
had never met them before. 

Light, colour and flowers were everywhere; the 
blaze of uniforms and the glory of Oriental dress; 
and near the entrance of the room, standing on a 
square of red carpet, the Lieutenant-Governor and 
Lady Smythe played the part of King and Queen. 
Lady Smythe hardly glanced at the advancing guests, 
and her husband stood at her side in his blue coat 
with gilt buttons, stoically blank. 


124 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Sir Benjamin and Lady Hitch,” Stretton an- 
nounced in his full, resonant voice. “The Lord 
Bishop of Shanmerg; Mrs. Radstock and Miss 
Keith.” 

As she walked to the red carpet, Marion saw that 
Jack Rutherford was standing a little to the back of 
the select crowd who were assembled on it. His 
place was on the carpet, and as she received the icy 
touch of Lady Smythe’s fingers, she caught Suffy’s 
eye and he smiled at her. 

They passed on into the indifferent crowd which 
suffered rather than welcomed them, and Marion 
wished from her heart that she had never come there 
at all. Lady Smythe had practically ignored her 
aunt, and had deliberately turned away, according 
her not even the semblance of any welcome, and she 
herself had received very nearly the same treatment. 

“Why should we stay?” she asked in a whisper, 
but Mrs. Radstock made no reply. She had seen 
a friend at last, and Mrs. Synd came towards them 
with the gushing enthusiasm of one who has no- 
where else to turn. She screamed compliments at 
Marion, and laughed a great deal, saying that she 
hadn’t a dance left as Lord Amesbury was a perfect 
wretch, and had appropriated almost every one. 

“Lord Amesbury and Mr. Dillon,” Stretton’s 
voice rang out again, and in spite of herself an elec- 
tric thrill ran through Marion, and she gripped her 
fan tightly. 

Dillon, with a hint of passing amusement in his 
eyes, came across the floor with his rather silly-look- 
ing friend, and Lady Smythe, ignoring the string of 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


125 

guests behind them, talked with animation to them 
both, and at last, after what seemed an age, Dillon 
came straight to where Marion stood. He frowned 
as he looked at her. 

“Why have you spoiled yourself?” he asked in a 
low voice. “You must go and wash it off.” 

“I shall not,” she said, and met his eyes with a 
challenge. 

“Are you going to dance with me? I can’t dance, 
by the way,” he went on, “but we could sit it out, 
and I will get a glass of water, and with a handker- 
chief you can become yourself again.” 

She wondered at his audacity. How dared he 
speak to her like that, when he was what he was? 

“I shall not dance with you,” she said formally. 
“I may not have much choice left to me, but at least 
I can choose whom I shall dance with.” 

A flash of hurt impatience crossed his face. “You 
don’t mean that?” he asked. “One dance. I’m not 
suggesting anything compromising.” 

The music of the band leapt into the air and the 
floor was being cleared, so that for the moment 
Marion was swept away from Mrs. Radstock. Mrs. 
Synd and Lord Amesbury were dancing together, 
and Jack Rutherford, accompanied by Bates, came 
to where they stood. For a second Marion hesi- 
tated, and then the memory of the Dillon whom she 
had known on the voyage out conquered, and she 
dropped her eyes. 

“Then, one,” she said. “There are things I would 
like to say to you.” 

Dillon scribbled his name on her programme and 


126 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


turned away, and a few minutes later Marion was 
dancing with Suffy. 

The ball, when she looked back on it, was one of 
the most miserable experiences she had even been 
through. Bates introduced her to a dozen men, who 
all seemed to regard her as fair game, and Stretton 
cut her dead because Lady Smythe’s eyes were upon 
him. She went through a wretched performance 
with Amesbury, who had drunk too much champagne 
at supper and whirled her off her feet, refusing to 
stop, and calling the united attention of the guests 
to their mad prancing. Bates, white and thin-lipped, 
drew her away to a sheltered place in the garden 
and, catching her hands, tried to kiss her. She was 
“a silly little girl,” he told her, to pretend. Why 
not be amiable? He added that he would come to 
Rosemary Villa again, and that her uncle was a queer 
old reprobate. His insolence was worse than the 
sentimental overtures of some of the others, and, 
compared with the rest, Rutherford stood out as the 
only kind and considerate man she had met there 
that night. Of Dillon she saw nothing; he was, 
so Suffy told her, in the cardroom playing bridge, 
and, as the night wore on, she longed with increasing 
trouble of heart for his reappearance. 

“You are by far the biggest peach here,” Suffy 
said with deep conviction, “All the other women are 
jealous. Why, they aren’t fit to tie your boots. I’m 
not much of a fellow, Miss Keith, but I do hope 
you’ll think of me as a friend.” His eyes grew 
moist with feeling. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


127 

“I want a friend,” she said sadly. “I think it was 
a mistake for us to come.” 

“Don’t say that,” he said anxiously. “Haven’t 
you enjoyed it? Amesbury behaved badly, but all 
of us knew it had nothing to say to you.” 

“I have never met people like these before,” she 
explained. “Lady Smythe was deliberately rude. 
Not that I care, but I wish we hadn’t come.” 

“No one minds her. She’s an old cat. Will you 
believe me that I’d do anything in the world for 
you?” 

They were sitting in an alcove at the end of the 
ball-room, and Marion saw Dillon come in from the 
further side. He looked round the room, searching 
for her, and Rutherford spoke again. 

“There’s Dillon. I like him, though there are 
very queer stories about him.” 

Dillon came towards her as they spoke, and 
Rutherford got up. “I’ll come back at the end of 
this dance and find Mrs. Rad,” he said reluctantly. 
“That is, if you really won’t stay.” 

“I certainly won’t stay,” Marion said quickly, and 
Dillon sat down at the vacant place at her side. 

“My pound has gained ten pounds,” he said, 
smiling at her, “and I worked hard. What have you 
been doing? You look as though you’d — ” he 
stopped as he scrutinised her face. “Rather as though 
you wished yourself back home.” 

“Don’t talk to me of home,” she said with a little 
quiver in her voice. 

“Tell me,” he asked, leaning forward, “has any- 
one been annoying you? Suffy hasn’t?” 


128 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


‘‘Indeed he has not,” Marion replied quickly. “I 
like Mr. Rutherford.” 

“Then someone else has, or was it that idiotic 
woman, Lady Smythe ? Do you know, Marion,” her 
name came out quite naturally, so that he hardly 
noticed that he had called her by it, “it really was 
rather a good joke. I had met her once before, at 
a dinner-party given by Stenhaven — oh, ages ago. 
Stenhaven is a relation of mine, not one of whom I 
am particularly proud.” 

Marion’s eyes grew icy. As well as being a shady 
adventurer, Quentin Dillon, so it appeared, thought 
it worth while to lie to her so that he might possibly 
impress her by dragging in a titled relative. Once 
she had asked her aunt tentatively where Mr. Dillon 
came from, and the answer had been “the gutter.” 

“I don’t remember that I ever said you might 
call me Marion,” she said frigidly, and then, as ever, 
something indefinable about him broke down her de- 
fences. She could not hate him. 

“I wish you would tell me what has happened,” he 
said earnestly. “Don’t imagine that I can’t under- 
stand the damnable position you are in; only you 
must not do that sort of thing,” he looked at her 
pink cheeks. Pink still in spite of the weariness of 
her body and mind. 

“Why not?” she said defiantly. “If I choose to 
get as much fun as I can out of the situation, I really 
do not see what it has to say to you, Mr. Dillon.” 

“That is how you regard it?” 

“Certainly.” 

He only looked at her steadfastly. Marion Keith 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


129 

must have been fighting hard, and her sword was 
still in her hand, she was intensely sensitive or she 
would never have spoken like that. 

“Then I shall say no more,” he said quietly, as he 
noticed the young haggardness of her face and eyes. 
She was feeling things desperately with all the pas- 
sionate revolt of her nature, and how was he to help 
her? Their short conversation had made real to 
him his position in her eyes, and his lady sweet and 
kind was hostile — no wonder that she was. 

“Don’t let us quarrel,” he said fiercely. She made 
such a powerful appeal to his chivalry, situated as 
she was. He knew perfectly well, now, what sort 
of people she had come out to, knew the ugly repu- 
tation of Rosemary Villa, and that her aunt and 
uncle were tarred with the same brush. The girl 
whose face had come to him out of the crowd in 
the picture gallery and taken his eyes and his ad- 
miration, was set in a place where it would be easy 
for her feet to slip, and the hard red, line of car- 
mine on her lips seemed like a concession to the sor- 
did vulgarity of her life. Did she intend to play up 
to the part expected of her? He could not believe 
it for a moment; you could trust her to walk through 
hell with her light, graceful step, and, because of 
some intrinsic whiteness of soul, to be able to ignore 
all she saw. 

He thought of the first evening, when she had 
spoken to him of her fears and troubles, and now the 
open door of confidence was closed, part of the pen- 
alty for his mad act in changing identities with the 
other Dillon. Yet he did not regret it. She was 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


130 

looking at him with her steady grey eyes, pondering 
some point in her mind, and he spoke again. 

“Am I to be nothing at all to you?” The lighted 
ball-room grew dim before his eyes, he ceased to 
notice the noise and laughter of the gay crowd, and, 
with his keen face set, he waited for her reply. The 
melody of the string band was beating out its flood 
of sentiment, recalling old memories, and making 
an obligato to new. 

“I want something real ” she said, with sudden 
vehemence. “A month ago, I believed in what I 
was told, and now I believe nothing.” She made a 
despairing gesture with her hands. “How can I be- 
lieve in you?” 

Then she either guessed or had been told, he 
thought. “Why should you, indeed,” he said 
gravely, “and yet, Marion, I love you, and I think 
you know it.” 

Marion drew back. She looked at Dillon’s face 
and she did not answer, and then she remembered 
the room where men gambled at her uncle’s house. 
She remembered the glimpse she had caught of Quen- 
tin driving with Amesbury and Mrs. Synd, and her 
heart turned to ice. He was good at pretence, and 
for some reason or other he wanted her to believe in 
him. 

As she watched him, Rutherford came through 
an opening at the back and prevented the possibility 
of any further speech. He looked very much wor- 
ried, and coming to where Marion sat he spoke to 
her. 

“I have found Mrs. Radstock,” he said apologeti- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


13 1 

cally. “She is in the carriage. Will you join her 
there, Miss Keith?” 

Marion got up without speaking again to Dillon, 
and followed Rutherford across the room. Her 
head ached desperately, and she smiled mechanically 
at Bates, who waylaid her again, and reminded her 
that he still had her name down for a dance. 

“I am tired,” she said, too weary for further hos- 
tilities, “and am going home.” 

Several other men had joined the group, all noisily 
demanding that she should stay, so that Stretton, 
who had been standing beside Lady Smythe, ad- 
vanced delicately and whispered to Bates. The sug- 
gestion that they were causing their hostess offence, 
was perfectly clear; and burning with shame, Marion 
went onwards, the way being open for her to leave. 

“Mrs. Rad isn’t in the best of form,” Rutherford 
said as she rejoined him, having put on her light silk 
cloak. “I think I’ll come back as far as Rosemary 
Villa, if you will not mind.” 

“Mind? I don’t mind anything,” she replied. 


CHAPTER XI 


Mrs. Radstock had suffered from the isolation of 
her position during the evening, and was angry; and 
since anger demands an object, she turned a cold 
look upon Marion Keith as she got into the carriage, 
but when she saw that Rutherford intended to ac- 
company them she softened perceptibly. 

The night was scented with jessamine and syringa, 
and the maddening sweetness of acacia trees in heavy 
blossom, and in the dim light of coming dawn, 
Marion looked hopelessly through the window. The 
sense of helplessness was heavy upon her soul, and 
she knew that Suffy watched her with the eyes of a 
faithful dog. He was talking to Mrs. Radstock, 
and listening to her stormy outburst against Lady 
Smythe. Mrs. Radstock did not spare her late 
hostess, and her anger was mordant and bitter. The 
refrain of her complaint was that Lady Smythe was 
not really a lady, and that with a record such as hers, 
it behooved her to be less insolent to others. 

Rutherford would have lingered in the veranda 
if Marion had given him any encouragement, but 
she hurried away to her room, longing for silence 
and peace. 

But peace was not for her just then, and when the 
ayah had gone off behind the curtain and through 
the door, her anklets tinkling, Marion heard a knock, 
132 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i33 

and her aunt came in, gaunt, grey and haggard in 
the clear yellow light of the Eastern morning. 

“I think that Rutherford means something,” Mrs. 
Radstock said, sitting down on a chair in front of 
the dressing table. “He stands well in the Com- 
mission, with his influence, and you might do worse. 
I’m speaking for your own good, Marion.” 

“What do you mean, Aunt Mildred?” Marion 
had washed the rouge off her face, and was star- 
tlingly pale. 

“I mean that it’s a chance for you.” She looked 
at the girl quite kindly as she spoke. “I know my 
world, and many of the men who will be glad enough 
to make you remarkable, won’t want to marry you. 
You may not have noticed that Mrs. Synd is jealous 
already.” 

“Mrs. Synd,” Marion said in accents of disgust. 
“I can’t bear Lord Amesbury. He was drunk.” 

Her aunt took no notice of her. “I have only 
come here to tell you that if you want safety, Ruther- 
ford can give it to you.” Mrs. Radstock got up, 
and drew her shabby black dressing-gown round her 
shoulders. “I can do very little. As we are, so you 
must accept us, for nothing will be altered. In your 
own best interests you should look for an establish- 
ment with the status Rutherford can give.” 

“But you said — or Mr. Lomax said, that Mr. 
Rutherford . . .” Marion hesitated and flushed. 

“Oh, the Burmese girl? That doesn’t count,” 
Mrs. Radstock made a gesture with her hands. “If 
you make a fuss about details of that kind, here in 
Burma, you won’t find a husband.” She looked 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i34 

sharply at Marion. “I saw that you were with 
Dillon just as we left. If you are so particular, 
Marion, I warn you that he isn’t the man to accept 
on friendly terms.” 

“What is there against Mr. Dillon?” she asked, 
catching her aunt by the sleeve of her wrap. “Why 
is it that you and Uncle Rad speak of him as you 
do?” 

For a moment Mrs. Radstock paused and seemed 
to consider her answer carefully, and then she spoke* 
“I prefer not to tell you — at present, certainly.” 

Marion watched her go, and cold waves of despair 
swept her. There had been the undeniable note of 
conviction in her aunt’s voice. She was carried back 
to those first days of her friendship with Quentin, 
and thought of how, together, they had talked of 
the unknown life awaiting them both. She had ac- 
cepted him open-heartedly and without reservation. 
His eyes were the eyes of an honest man, and he 
suggested no kind of falseness or intrigue, and yet he 
had never talked very much of himself, and not at 
all of his own past history. She had no thought for 
Rutherford; he mattered as little as the dust under 
her feet, the soft red dust of the Rangoon roads. It 
was of Dillon she thought, the man whom she loved, 
against her own judgment, and she fought with her- 
self for a clean memory of him. He had told her 
that he loved her, and she must not let herself think 
of him. If Rutherford seemed tarnished and dam- 
aged by his easy code of morals, how could Dillon 
stand exempt? At length she slept out of sheer 
weariness. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


135 

With the morning Marion had made her decision. 
She intended to cut off her offending hand. If Dillon 
came to the house, as she knew he would, she in- 
tended to avoid him. She was pledged to her aunt 
to help her as far as she could, and she intended to 
recapture what she might of the old freshness and 
gaiety which had escaped from her. The words 
came back to her, “ ’Tis but in vain, for soldiers to 
complain,” and she managed to extract a great 
amount of comfort from them. 

The idle, lazy days passed on, and the rains began 
to threaten, massing in heavy clouds over the Shan 
hills. All the mournfulness of a tropical climate 
when the sun is hidden, fell over the land, and the 
palm trees in the garden at Rosemary Villa swayed 
and tossed in the warm high wind. Low mist 
wraiths down the valley clung like cotton wool, and 
doors banged and windows rattled all through the 
house. The evenings grew dark early, and as 
Marion refused to face the Gymkhana Club, where 
she and her aunt were openly avoided, she was left a 
great deal to herself. Uncle Rad never went to any 
club, but he never lacked company, for a string of 
men came perpetually to the house. The influx of 
casual guests had increased perceptibly, and Marion 
could only suppose that Dillon was the agent who 
brought them there. Mrs. Synd and the other 
declassee women who whirled in the lower waters of 
Rangoon society, also came and were made welcome, 
though Amesbury had gone, leaving no trace of him- 
self other than a set of rubies and a gold bag, which 
Mrs. Synd exhibited with a rather na’ive pride. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


136 

By a process of steady avoidance, Marion kept 
more or less out of the mid-stream of her uncle’s 
hospitality. Many of the men began by paying her 
quite unsubtle attentions, but finding they met with 
no response they forsook her for Mrs. Synd and her 
friends, who were more amiably inclined. Marion 
watched them with speculative eyes, and wondered at 
them. Mrs. Synd seemed to her so curiously futile, 
and her method lay in much use of her large brown 
eyes, and a habit of pinching people under the dinner- 
table. She had also an odd fashion of lacing her 
shoes, tying them at the toes instead of over her in- 
steps. She was really nothing but a clumsy vul- 
garian with a good neck and shoulders and an eter- 
nally ready laugh. Her reputation for popularity was 
immense, and her talk risque; she regarded Marion 
as a foe, chiefly because she was young, and very 
much better looking than herself, and she resented 
the fact that what she accepted with avidity, Marion 
did not appear to consider worth notice. 

Outwardly, at least, the decencies were observed. 
Whatever might be said of Rosemary Villa, and 
much was said, Mrs. Radstock kept a sufficiently 
firm hand on the reins; and though Bates had be- 
come a habitue, and was there with increasing fre- 
quency, Marion knew that her Aunt Mildred took 
some trouble to protect her from having to see him 
alone. He was always on the watch, and waylaid 
her in the veranda, if she came down earlier than 
the rest. But things were not standing still, and 
Marion knew that when the rains broke, and Ran- 
goon was emptied of the big important people, Rose- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


137 

mary Villa became more and more the central meet- 
ing place for the less reputable. Bates had followed 
his Excellency and Lady Smythe to the hills, and 
so she was spared his attentions, but Nesbit re- 
mained, and bit by bit she realised that though her 
Aunt Mildred was prepared to defend her from 
Bates, she withdrew all shelter where Nesbit was 
concerned. 

She deliberately refused to talk to Quentin Dillon, 
who accepted her attitude without complaint. He 
was there as often as any of those who came, and 
she knew that his dark eyes followed her even when 
she would not look in his direction. 

Rutherford was for ever at her heels, and from 
time to time he hovered on the brink of an open 
declaration only fended off by Marion’s steady re- 
fusal to give him any chance to speak. Though she 
held life at bay, surrounding herself with indiffer- 
ence, she knew that her defences were deplorably 
weak, and Nesbit was, of all the rest, the one she 
most feared. 

It was towards the end of the rains, while Ran- 
goon steamed and sweated in the fierce return of a 
blazing sun, that' events began to shape definitely. 
Suffy Rutherford had, with his usual skill, wangled 
a job at Government House, and was established 
there as an extra secretary. He brought his ponies 
with him, and he and Marion rode along the twisting 
paths that circled the lakes, the wind singing freshly 
in the feathery bamboos over her head. Riding with 
Suffy was very nearly the same as riding alone, and 
it gave her a better sensation of freedom. She and 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


138 

her aunt had ceased to hold anything in the way of 
confidential relations. Uncle Rad treated her to 
bursts of temper, and her position in the house be- 
came more and more complex. She was like a woman 
blindfolded by fate, and who must seek to know 
nothing, and the only echoes of events that came to 
her now that she had chosen to cut Dillon off, 
reached her through Rutherford’s conversation. She 
had wit enough to know that so long as Rutherford 
danced his perpetual attendance upon her, her aunt 
believed that she would eventually show her good 
sense and marry him. 

One exquisite morning, when the early sunshine 
gilded the trees and roofs and called out the colour 
of gorgeous blossom, Marion started from the gate 
of Rosemary Villa and she and Rutherford turned 
their ponies up the hill. 

Marion had a distinct sensation that Rutherford 
intended to be confidential, and her wish to avoid 
confidences made her keep a little ahead of him. 

“Stop and talk to me, Miss Keith,” he implored 
her; “there is something which I must say.” 

She held back the bay waler who danced across 
the road out of sheer lightness of heart, and turned 
her head and looked at Suffy. 

“I’m not in the least in the mood for confidences,” 
she said, with a laugh. “What is it?” 

“It’s Nesbit,” he replied seriously. “I’m afraid 
he’ll give you a lot of trouble. He’s not the right 
sort, and lately he’s been drinking.” 

“I don’t really care what he does,” she said in- 
differently. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


139 

“You may not, but all the same I had to warn you. 
You see . . Rutherford paused and hesitated, 
“Nesbit talks.” 

“I suppose so.” Still she was not interested. “So 
long as he talks to other people, I don’t really care, 
as I said.” 

Rutherford thought for a moment before he spoke 
again. “He and Rad are partners. I’m not saying 
that there’s anything special in that, but Rad will be 
on his side. We all gamble a bit — I do, and so do 
the rest.” He seemed to feel a touch of depression 
as he spoke of it. “You’re in danger,” he went on 
anxiously. “I’m not thinking only of myself, indeed 
I am not.” 

They had reached a clear space on the high 
ground, and Marion looked back across the valley 
to where the two towers of the Cathedral, and the 
shining lance of the Shwey Dagone stood upwards in 
the exquisite colour of a blue day. A yearning for 
all she had left behind grew to pain in her heart, and 
her quiet girlhood went by before her eyes. She 
saw the high border of flowering herbaceous plants 
against the grey walls of the garden, the plumes of 
lilacs, and the flicker of beech trees in the sun. 
Ghosts of remembered faces trooped out and took 
life once more and called to her wistfully. It all 
seemed very far away, and now Rutherford said she 
was in danger, and that she was threatened by the 
coarse man who was proprietor of the Palm Hotel. 

“You don’t care for me?” Rutherford asked in 
a low, grieved voice, and Marion shook her head. 

“There’s no reason why you should,” he went on, 


140 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“but even if you pretended, said you were engaged 
to me, I could protect you from Nesbit.” 

“You are very kind,” she said, “because you mean 
it” Her eyes were turned to bis quite frankly. She 
was struck with his suggestion of weakness. Even 
in this moment, which was for him a very poignant 
one, he had none of the boldness of decision. He 
loved her, but even his love was weak, and Marion, 
while she pitied him, also felt a touch of scorn. Did 
he really believe that he could fight her battles and 
shelter her from the storm? He looked apologetic, 
an attitude which no woman forgives easily in a 
man, and she felt her sympathy wane and evaporate. 
There are some men whom every woman in a sense 
treats badly, and the strongly feminine touch in 
Rutherford made Marion callous. He was suffer- 
ing like a woman, too, for his eyes were full of tears, 
and when she rode away from the hill and he fol- 
lowed her, her most definite feeling was one of irri- 
tation. 

And yet she softened a little as she rode up the 
gravelled path to the slovenly entrance of the ver- 
anda. She was hoping, in the mad way in which 
women hope, that Dillon might be there and might 
come out to meet her, but instead Nesbit swaggered 
along the flagged terrace, and with his topi pushed 
over his nose, greeted her with much familiarity. 

“I’ve been having a drink with old Rad,” he said, 
helping her down. “You look very delectable, Miss 
Marion,” he squeezed her in his arms as she ex- 
tricated herself angrily. “Breakfast’s ready, by the 
smell of the curry, so trot along and don’t take hours 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 141 

making yourself beautiful. You’ll do as you are”; 
and then he turned to Rutherford and laughed at 
him, pointing at him with an extended arm and 
striking an attitude as though he had only then rec- 
ognised him. 

“Been to the Bunya?” he asked, “or won’t they 
lend you any more, Suffy ? You’ll have to cut some 
fellow’s throat to turn your luck. They say that’s 
the way to make sure of it.” 

“I’ll cut yours,” Rutherford said, without his 
usual good humour. “I’d like to do that whether it 
changed my luck or not.” 


CHAPTER XII 


When Dillon left England, he had gone with the 
definite idea of experiencing sensations and tighten- 
ing up his nerves until they could once more hum like 
strained telegraph wires. He could get this special 
sensation no longer through facing a hunter at an 
ugly fence, or sailing a yacht single-handed in a gale 
of wind, and he needed more of a wild uncertainty 
of what might be coming next to afford him any 
real zest in life. This was what he had asked for 
when he turned his back on his old associates, and 
he could not grumble because fate had refused to 
fulfil his demands. 

He had already arrived at the state of mind which 
makes a man lie awake at night, wondering what 
the morning will bring, and with all the rest, he was 
desperately in love with his lady sweet and kind. 

The deeper he went into the so-called “business” 
the more murky it appeared, and his first dislike of 
Radstock thickened up, as Quentin put it, into some- 
thing closely akin to detestation. He played his 
part with a skill which surprised himself, and had 
very little pity for pigeons such as Amhurst who, he 
felt, deserved what they got. But the talk that he 
heard sickened him, and the better type of men who 
went to Rosemary Villa were in the habit of pitying 
Marion Keith, while the others believed that she was 
142 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


143 

merely clever, and had decided that she would hold 
out for a profitable marriage. Quentin could fight 
for her in a detached way, and at least the others 
knew better now than to discuss her in his hearing, 
but otherwise his hands were tied. As they could 
treat no one else to scorn, Radstock and his wife 
made the most of the fact that they knew him to be 
their inferior, and often it had cost him a fierce 
effort not to flame up into open revolt. 

It had taken some time for him to realise that 
Nesbit “meant business,” as he put it, and, of all 
people, he chose Quentin as his confidant. On the 
whole, he appeared to like Dillon in a condescending 
fashion, and when he had drunk rather more than 
he should have done, he even regarded him as a 
humble friend to whom he might talk. 

“I’m thinking of doing something rather mad,” 
Nesbit said one sultry evening as they sat in his room 
at the back of the Palm Hotel. His coat was 
hanging on his chair and his collar lay on the floor; 
for his attitude was degage and he looked more than 
usually ill-bred and highly-coloured. 

“You are, are you?” Dillon laughed. The heat 
was never unkind to him, and even with the ther- 
mometer at 105°, he showed none of the trickly 
stickiness which affected his companion. “It seems 
to me that we’re all pretty mad as it is. One of 
these days Rad will come down and there will be 
an inquiry.” 

“Not it.” Nesbit shook his head. “Not since 
Swimerton allowed his weakness for punting to con- 
quer his damned superiority. If there were to be a 


144 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


row he’d be in it, and, to keep himself out, he’s got 
to protect the rest of us.” 

Dillon shook his head. “I don’t agree. You can’t 
eat your cake and have it — Providence doesn’t like 
that kind of thing. Something will happen.” 

Nesbit hummed between his closed teeth and re- 
turned to his first point. “I haven’t told you what 
I’m going to do, Dillon,” he said expansively. “It 
will come as a bit of a surprise to you. But I’m an 
independent cove — always was. I came out here 
and turned innkeeper, and I’ve never given a damn 
for public opinion. My own people won’t know 
me” — he was so proud of this fact that he repeated 
the words — “actually won’t know me, because they 
think such a hell of a lot of themselves, and it doesn’t 
bother me much, and if they disapprove of my 
marrying, I don’t care.” 

“Marrying?” Dillon raised his eyebrows. “Who 
is it, if one may ask?” 

Nesbit moved in his chair and stuck his thumbs in 
the armholes of his white waistcoat. “I intend,” he 
said, chewing the end of his cigar, “to marry Mrs. 
Rad’s niece. Of course, I know all that can be said 
against it. There’s talk about Rosemary Villa, a 
great deal of talk, but I can afford not to care.” 
He looked at Dillon quickly and his sandy eyelashes 
flickered. For all his boasting, it was evident that 
he was slightly sensitive on the point and rather 
anxious to see how his colleague accepted the an- 
nouncement. Dillon’s face expressed neither sur- 
prise nor admiration. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


145 

“Have you said anything to Miss Keith?” he 
asked at last. 

“Why, no.” Nesbit blew out a gust of smoke. 
“Not yet. All in good time. I have indicated to 
Rad that I mean business, and he is, naturally, very 
well pleased. She’s rather in the way up there” — 
he jerked his thumb vaguely in the direction of Rose- 
mary Villa. “Mrs. Synd and the others don’t like 
her, and she turned down Bates too heavily. I’m 
not defending Bates, but it’s awkward, and better for 
everyone if she were out of it.” 

“In fact, you are an altruist?” Dillon suggested. 

“Oh no, not that. I don’t mind her airs — I’m 
used to airs at home; it decided me. She’s quite 
right,” he went on argumentatively; “why make her- 
self cheap? She’s got some sense, and I respect her 
for it.” 

“But you may not be the only one?” Dillon said 
with an added quietness of tone. 

“You’re alluding to Suffy? I expect he’ll ask her 
to marry him, but he’s pretty nearly ruined, Dillon.” 
Nesbit’s face changed and lost its contented smile. 
“I’m bothered about that. He ought not to play 
any more. I’ve got a lot of information about him 
through Mones, the Eurasian clerk, and he says that 
Suffy’s as rocky as Gibraltar.” 

“That doesn’t alter the fact that ” 

“He’s after my girl?” Nesbit laughed loudly. 
“You can’t set up house when you owe every dib you 
earn to the moneylenders, and even though socially 
he can make a better bid, I’ve got the ready, and I 


1 46 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

intend to take Ma Tin’s house on the lakes. It’s a 
fine place and good enough for anyone.” 

“There might be others.” Quentin looked at 
Nesbit, and some of his dislike found its way into his 
eyes, so that once more the innkeeper of the Palm 
Hotel was moved to mirth. 

“Well, I know one person whom it can’t be, old 
fellow,” he said heartily, “and that is William Quen- 
tin Dillon. You’ve got a wife already, as I hap- 
pen to know. It amuses me,” he leaned back again, 
“to think that you play the Duke so successfully, 
and to talk to you no one would dream the kind of 
cuss you really are. Upon my soul, there’s times 
when I have to rub my eyes. Living here like a 
millionaire and pals with decent men when you might 
be asking for a ticket in the Sailors’ Home, and glad 
not to be in a ruddy worse place.” 

Dillon lighted a cigarette. For a second he was 
stunned by the new discovery, and he thought again 
of Marion Keith. Did she know? Probably she 
did. And how in the intricate tangle of circum- 
stances was he ever going to clear himself in her 
eyes? 

“I won’t say that I don’t rather like you for it,” 
Nesbit continued magnanimously. “I expected a 
seedy chap who would dress up to the part and get 
in with fellows who aren’t over particular. I admit, 
too, that it’s due to you that we’ve got the stunt run- 
ning on a much bigger scale. Classy” — he drank, 
lifting his glass towards Dillon. “Positively classy. 
And all to some extent owing to a fellow who hasn’t 
a shred of reputation. Your career gone to the 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i47 

dogs, no money, so far as we heard, and worried 
with family cares into the bargain. By Gad, I re- 
spect you.” He paused to take breath. “How 
you get finances to run your car I haven’t asked, 
and I don’t intend to ask. Live and let live, that’s 
what I say. But if you’ve let yourself admire 
Marion Keith, you’d better pull up short.” 

Quentin turned his eyes away and looked out 
through the open veranda into the night. The situa- 
tion was so ridiculous in some of its aspects that he 
was close to bitter laughter. What sort of figure in- 
deed did he cut, if you knew only the record of the 
man he had met at the Commercial Hotel? 

“You don’t want to talk about the past; quite,” 
Nesbit said. “I understand that. Particularly the 
last episode. I’m not speaking of anything just to 
remind you of it, only to tell you that at times I 
could swear you had forgotten it yourself.” 

“I’d like to know how many do know all this,” 
Dillon said slowly. “I expected to be treated 
squarely.” 

“So you have been,” Nesbit slapped the table with 
an open palm. “Damned square. Beyond myself 
and Rad, which includes Mrs. Rad, no one else 
was told as much as a whisper. Couldn’t be ; you see 
that for yourself, surely? If it got out that you 
weren’t quite as showy as you look, it wouldn’t do. 
It’s kept close enough, and will be unless you make 
trouble. Rad hates the sight of you, and he’d like 
to notify the police, but he won’t. It’s Swimerton 
over again, too much at stake to allow of it. Be- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


148 

sides, I’ve taken to you, and I’ll see that you don’t 
get into the mud.” 

“As you appear to know more of my private af- 
fairs than I do myself,” Quentin said, with assumed 
indifference, “perhaps you’d just run over the points 
most likely to get me into trouble over here ?” 

Nesbit laughed. He regarded the subject as a 
good joke. “You are wanted in Johannesburg,” he 
said, removing a long grey ash from his cigar, “that 
news came from Macmillan this mail. Mac is bleat- 
ing like a sheep over it, and apparently his house is 
watched by narks, as they still suspect him of hiding 
you away. As for the woman, she’s yelping, too, so 
Mac said, and raising hell. However, none of them 
know where you are, except Mac.” 

Dillon sat silent. Nesbit had cast a net of illusion 
about him, and he felt as though he was listening to 
some fantastic story told about someone else. He 
remained very quiet and looked down at his folded 
hands. 

To nearly everyone there comes a moment in a 
lifetime when the whole extent of some preposterous 
folly spreads itself out complete under our stricken 
eyes, and we realise that under the influence of a 
momentary impulse, we have run on the rocks. The 
situation admitted of no escape, and the joke was an 
infernal one. There was no going back, and around 
him there towered walls built up by his namesake’s 
past sins. Nesbit watched him with some surprise; 
there was something deeper than silence between 
them just then. 

“I will say,” the innkeeper of the Palm Hotel 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 149 

went on, “you’ve done well. Bluffed like a good ’un. 
Bates looks upon you as an equal, and he’s a super- 
cilious blighter. You fooled Swimerton Ai, and he 
actually thinks he knows your uncle a General.” 
Nesbit slapped his leg and laughed. “It was as good 
as a play. You’ve been asked to stay with his Excel- 
lency and her damned Ladyship. Oh, it’s one of the 
finest ramps of modern times. I tell you, if I didn’t 
trust you to pull it through, I’d get nervy, only you’ve 
cheek enough for anything. A knock-out, you are.” 

“Yes, so I begin to think,” Quentin agreed. 

“But you haven’t fooled Marion Keith,” Nesbit 
went on. “She’s not taking any. I’ve watched her, 
and I asked old Ma Rad if she knew. Ma Rad 
said she didn’t, so there’s instinct for you, old man.” 
He got up and yawned as he looked out of the open 
doors of the veranda. “It’s about time we moved 
along. There won’t be many up there to-night as 
there’s a Masonic dinner going on, but enough to 
make things cheery.” 

They walked out into the street together, and 
through the Chinese quarter, taking their way up 
the hill, the stale sweet scents of the bazaar hang- 
ing in the air, and the gala effect of a lighted stage 
around them. Once more the sensation of unreality 
affected Dillon strangely. He felt that if he were 
to strike out with his fists, he could dispel it all like 
an illusion; amid the whole fantastic show, nothing 
whatever was real except his love for Marion Keith. 
The man at his side, who looked like a flushed and 
handsome butcher, intended, if he could, to marry 
Quentin’s “lady sweet and kind,” and that, too, could 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


150 

only be a kind of nightmare dream. Rangoon lay 
below them as they reached the gate leading to Rose- 
mary Villa, with its mysterious fairy-tale wonder, 
and, as once before, Quentin was assailed by a real- 
isation of the intense loneliness of his position and 
that of Marion Keith. 

They entered the house by a door at the back, and 
took their places at the table where Radstock held 
the bank at chemin-de-fer. Swimerton, left in 
charge during his Excellency’s absence, had come 
there under cover of the night, his dry soul bitter 
with the dust of Burma, and his eyes lighted with a 
gambler’s insatiable lust. Moxton, a huge, important- 
looking man, who was head of a rice firm, spread 
himself over the table, slightly fuddled with drink, 
as he stared with semi-intoxicated concentration at 
the candles, covered with dim glass globes; and 
Bates, alert and keen, leaned back and watched the 
others, which included Lomax in a noisy mood, and 
Suffy Rutherford, who seemed very silent and de- 
pressed. 

At the arrival of Quentin and Nesbit there was a 
touch of lifted interest. Things had been sagging 
a little and Dillon invariably brought with him a 
kind of added zest to matters. He played with the 
reckless disregard of a man who never counts the 
cost, and fortune favoured him. But he was not 
thinking of what he was doing, and, after a little, 
Nesbit made an excuse, saying that he was tired of 
play, and he left the table. 

Dillon’s eyes travelled the intent faces, and rested 
on that of Suffy Rutherford, who watched Nesbit 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


151 

swing out through the door. Suffy was anxious, and 
even his losses did not prevent still keener anxiety 
from driving them out of his mind. The game went 
on steadily, and the concentration in the atmosphere 
strengthened. How intense it was, Dillon thought, 
and how futile. If any of them had used the same 
effort to gain the intangible along other lines, they 
might even have saved their souls. He had com- 
mitted himself irrevocably, and the thought of the 
grotesque and brutal creature with whom he had 
exchanged identities dismayed him for the first time. 

Outside, the fire-flies spun the mazes of a fairy 
dance, and the garden was still in its garment of scent 
and flower. The room became a drugged place, and 
the faces round the table showed like masks, with 
strained set eyes, and his thoughts followed Nesbit 
who had gone in search of Marion Keith. 

“You’re having the devil’s own luck to-night, 
Dillon,” Swimerton said suspiciously, as he looked 
up his cards, and then, before Quentin had time to 
answer, the sound of a stifled cry reached them, and 
he sprang to his feet, overturning his chair. 

He had a vague idea that Radstock shouted at 
him angrily, but he did not wait to hear what he said. 
Marion had cried out, and was in need of him to 
help her, and dragging open the mosquito door be- 
tween him and the veranda, he ran quickly into the 
garden. 


CHAPTER XIII 


She was standing by the edge of the pool, her light 
dress shimmering in the moonlight, and her face as 
pale as ivory, and at a little distance off, Nesbit stood 
with lowered head watching her. He was in a raging 
fury of half-inarticulate passion, and his anger 
showed in the heavy lines of his bent shoulders. 
There was the suggestion of a bull about to charge 
in his attitude. When he came close to her, Quen- 
tin could see that the lace of her dress had been torn, 
where she held it over her shoulder. Nesbit had 
forced her to defend herself, so much was quite evi- 
dent. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a thick, 
furious voice. “Get out.” 

Marion turned to him and her voice shook a little. 
“Thank you for coming,” she said slowly, and then 
she drooped her head as though her thoughts hurt 
her, and moved away to return to the house. 

“I’ll speak to you presently, Nesbit,” Dillon said 
as she passed him, pausing for a second and touching 
his arm with her hand. It bridged the gulf between 
them, and even his anger towards Nesbit was a little 
thing compared to the joy of their renewed confi- 
dence. 

“You want an explanation, do you?” Nesbit asked 
roughly. “Very good. Stop and hear it,” he 
152 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


153 

turned to Marion. “It’s your business as well as 
Dillon’s.” 

“Miss Keith has no interest in anything we have 
to say to one another,” Dillon said quickly. “Please 
go back to the house, leave this — leave Nesbit to 
me. 

“If she has anything to say against me let her 
say it,” Nesbit said, shrugging his shoulders. “She’ll 
not get another chance in a hurry. I offered to marry 
her”; he was thunderstruck at the recollection of his 
own magnanimity. “By God, and she tried her airs 
and graces. And now,” Marion was still standing 
at a little distance off, “a dirty swindler like you, 
Dillon, with a swindler’s record, and a wife on the 
streets who kept you for two years, comes prancing 
in and asking me what I mean by it.” 

Dillon turned towards Marion again. “Please go 
into the house,” he said, but he could not read her 
face as she went from him, and he wondered, rather 
helplessly, whether one was ever able to explain any- 
thing, or whether explanations are of the least real 
use. It was easier just then to let his anger dictate 
the most suitable line of conduct, and without wait- 
ing to consider he caught Nesbit by the shoulder and 
swung his fist clear and clean into his face. , 

“That’s my answer,” he said as Nesbit steadied 
himself for a rush and struck out, getting Quentin 
on the fore-arm as the men, who were aware now of 
some fierce struggle taking place outside, came 
through the lighted doors and separated them. 

Radstock, shaking and white with anger, stood 
gesticulating between the two men, and Swimerton, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


i54 

who had merely looked at the scene, turned away 
and walked rapidly down the path to the garden 
gate. 

“What’s it all about?” Moxton asked with a 
drunken titter, as he swayed on his feet, and Lomax 
held Quentin by the elbows, speaking as though he 
addressed a frightened horse. “Whoa, steady there, 
steady now,” he said. “This won’t do.” 

“What in hell are you fighting about?” Radstock 
said in a high, nervous voice. “Here, Nesbit, you 
explain.” 

“He accused me of swindling,” Dillon said, draw- 
ing a quick, sharp breath. “I don’t take that from 
any man.” 

Nesbit seemed to reflect over his words, and gave 
a snort of contempt. “I stick to it,” he replied. 

“Then stick away,” Lomax suggested, “only keep 
it to yourself. You two have got to make friends.” 

Rutherford was standing at a little distance from 
the group and had said nothing, but he spoke sud- 
denly. 

“I’m with you over this, Dillon,” he remarked. 
“If anyone has to apologise it must be Nesbit.” 

“Apologise?” Nesbit’s voice came with a roar, 
“Apologise?” and he added a string of violent abuse. 
“It’s time that Dillon cleared out of decent society.” 

Quentin was only attending with half his mind. 
There had been some real pleasure in getting his 
blow home on Nesbit, but Nesbit had done his dirty 
work well, and there was no recalling the spoken 
word. Perhaps it was the satisfaction he extracted 
from that very fact which made Nesbit swagger for- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


155 

ward and say that both of them had been a bit hasty. 
He had one hand to his temple, and held out the 
other. “After all we’re Englishmen,” he said, “and 
can behave as such, I hope.” His expectation that 
Dillon would live up to the standard was obviously 
rather doubtful, but Nesbit was behaving like a hero 
in a novel, and he rather enjoyed the part. He had 
gone pretty far, but that could be forgotten and, 
anyhow, he had said nothing but the truth. In his 
heart he promised himself to trample again, when 
the moment for trampling arrived, but in the exist- 
ing conditions there must be a truce. Therefore he 
stepped forward to carry off the situation with his 
usual and nearly unconscious insincerity. The bruise 
on his forehead burnt like fire, and his outheld 
hand was cold and sticky, and Dillon did not take it. 

“Come on, shake hands, shake hands,” Moxton 
said. “It’s a sporting offer, Nesbit. I like you for it.” 

He was growing sentimental, and spoke of “white 
men” and the public schools. With a quick move- 
ment of disgust Quentin touched the proffered hand. 

It certainly had complicated matters, and to return 
to the Palm Hotel and remain there was out of the 
question, he thought, with a feeling of thankfulness. 
He could remove himself and live at the Mandalay, 
and the farce of being kept for nothing would end 
automatically. Furthermore, he would write Nes- 
bit a cheque for his account against him. But this 
did not protect Marion Keith from the vulgar at- 
tack of a man who would, inevitably, persecute her. 
Quentin saw clearly that he was in no position to 
fall out with Radstock, who already was on the alert 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


156 

to seize a chance of getting him out of the way. 
The original plan had been to decoy cheap dupes 
to the gambling tables, and Quentin had brought 
men who were of a different stamp. “The club” 
had paid well, and there was nothing actually of the 
nature of a swindle in the management, but Nesbit 
and Radstock knew that if Dillon were exposed, the 
edifice would crash down with an unholy clatter and 
the dust its fall would raise must be of the kind that 
doesn’t brush off. They would only try to get rid of 
him secretly, and he was determined to give them 
no such chance. 

“I’m prepared to let the matter rest,” he said. 
The group began to disperse, Nesbit following Rad- 
stock into the house, and leaving Suffy and Dillon 
the only two remaining guests. 

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” Rutherford said, 
gripping Dillon’s arm. “You’ve put your mark on 
Nesbit. Talk of swine ... I could tell you things 
about him if I cared to.” 

“I don’t want to hear them,” Dillon said shortly. 

What was the use of talking to Suffy about any- 
thing? Suffy was one of those futile people whose 
opinions are an echo and who have no definite per- 
sonality of their own. He left him without speaking 
again and walked away, his white figure appearing 
ghostly in the strips of moonlight which fell through 
the laced leaves of the rustling palms. Dillon would 
have given everything he possessed for ten minutes’ 
talk with Marion Keith. He did not want to excuse 
himself to her, but he would have liked to explain so 
that she could understand. He wanted to assert his 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


157 

normal identity as it were, rather than evade the 
penalties of his own rash act. The insult thrown 
at him by Nesbit was personal in the last degree, 
and was evidently true of William Dillon. Marion 
had no reason to think it a lie, and yet — and yet there 
was such a thing as a woman’s instinct that went 
deeper than external evidence. Could she give him 
the one chance this possibility might offer? 

There would be a conference between Nesbit and 
Radstock, and whatever they mutually decided would 
be put up to Quentin by one or other the following 
day. He suspected that they would attempt to buy 
him out, since threats would not be of any use, as 
their own hands were tied. They might heap abuse 
on him privately, or in confidence to each other, but 
Nesbit had held his tongue, even in his mad rage, 
when the other men joined them. Quentin’s own 
position was a strong one, and it mattered nothing 
to him what they said, so long as he still kept the 
entree at Rosemary Villa. 

Before he went to bed he told his Goanese boy 
to pack his clothes, as he intended to move to the 
Mandalay Hotel the following morning. He awoke 
with a sense of relief, thinking that his irritating 
partnership with Nesbit was actually ended at last, 
and there was no sign of the proprietor of the Palm 
Hotel as he went to breakfast. It was Radstock 
who was to be ambassador, and who came up the 
steps as Dillon’s luggage was piled on a ticca gharry 
and the Goanese boy collected his belongings in the 
hall. 


158 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Hullo, hullo,” Radstock said with a touch of 
compulsory zeaL “Not going away, Dillon?” 

“Only to the Mandalay Hotel,” Quentin said care- 
lessly, and Radstock drew him into a quiet corner, 
his face puffy under the eyes and anxious in expres- 
sion. 

“But we can’t run to that,” he said, frowning. 
“It’s out of the question. Nesbit is standing you 
your keep, and you aren’t such a boob as to think 
that anyone at the Mandalay will pay for the pleas- 
ure of your society?” 

“I’ve paid Nesbit for his hospitality,” Dillon said 
with a smile. “You needn’t worry, I prefer to 
choose where I stay for myself.” 

Radstock shrugged his shoulders. The problem 
was beyond him, and he evidently jumped to the 
conclusion that Dillon had blackmailed Amesbury 
and was consequently in funds. “If you can do it, 
well and good,” he said grudgingly. “I came here 
to say that Nesbit won’t cut up rough. He’s pre- 
pared to overlook your conduct of last night. 
Damned decent of him.” 

“Damned decent,” Quentin echoed. 

“But all the same,” Radstock blinked his red- 
rimmed eyelid, “you ran it too fine. He told me 
that you interfered between him and my niece. 
Now, I’m no Puritan, but I do draw the line at your 
cutting in where ladies are concerned. A man with 
your record, Dillon, hasn’t any claim to butt in* 
Nesbit’s a solid fellow, and he means well by 
Marion.” 

“I don’t follow you,” Quentin said with the same 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


*59 

dangerous calm. “You can’t trade women like 
goods, and no decent man gambles with women. 
Leaving my record out of the question for the mo- 
ment, as I see it, you’re backing up Nesbit because 
you can’t help yourself, and it’s a dirty trick.” 

Radstock muttered under his breath. “I didn’t 
come to you for advice,” he said rudely. “We’ve 
decided, Nesbit and I, to give you another chance. 
I mean, we won’t chuck you over yet. If you behave 
yourself properly things can go on, and we won’t 
give you away.” 

Dillon’s laugh rang out spontaneous and clear. 
“I’m tremendously obliged,” he said, and he got up. 
“There’s nothing more to be said, except that if 
I find that Nesbit has been annoying Miss Keith 
any further I shall bash his face in.” 

Quentin did not wait to continue the argument, 
and walked down the steps of the Palm Hotel into 
the aching glare of the day outside. He felt up- 
lifted and refreshed as the inspiration of battle 
stirred in his blood. With some human beings in- 
dignation acts like torment and eats their flesh and 
exhausts their spirits, but with others it has the qual- 
ity of an elixir, and on its waves they rise to a kind 
of glory of attack. The grossness, stupidity and 
degradation of the two men who were his so-called 
partners disgusted him to the soul, and they were 
now his declared enemies, which is always a good 
thing to make sure of. 

It was also comforting to be away from the Palm 
Hotel and the persistent advances of Mrs. Synd, 
who pursued Dillon when no one else offered, 


160 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

and had to be avoided; and to be back in more fa- 
miliar surroundings. He intended to punt no more 
on behalf of Radstock and Nesbit, and it was as 
though he had severed a tie of the flesh which united 
him with swine and pariah dogs, just as he was spir- 
itually united with the fresh eternal things that shone 
in the eyes of Marion Keith. The little people once 
again were banded against him, as Wade and the 
men who had combined with Wade had fought to 
get rid of him. He had chosen, in the latter case, 
to “depart out of their coasts,” but now he had 
something to fight for and his mind recaptured its 
serenity. 

When he was installed in the Mandalay Hotel, 
and sat in a big airy room which looked out over 
the lakes, he lost himself for a little, dreaming, as 
men whose life is action sometimes dream, while the 
fine outlines of little gilded minarets against the sky 
caught the sunlight, like the outposts of a city of 
vision. A red rose bush outside his window sent 
up a deep fragrance of rich sweetness, and far away 
the chiming of a distant clock struck its music in 
the air. He could see the placid bosom of the lake 
stretched like a sheet of blue and silver in the dis- 
tance below him, and the mystery of life swept over 
him. The drowsy day had passed its meridian and 
was turning towards afternoon, and Dillon did not 
stir, but sat with his feet up on a long chair, looking 
out through the open door that led into the veranda. 
He had no special power to grip motives or read 
hearts, but he wondered, as he sat there, what the 
next stage of the story would be. Could he go to 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


161 


Marion and tell her exactly how he stood, give her 
proof that he and William Dillon were two dif- 
ferent men, and ask her if she would marry him? 
It was the direct way, and Quentin was a follower 
of direct action in all things. 

He could foresee that Marion’s life would be 
made unbearable for her, and that, whatever else 
came out of his fracas with Nesbit it would certainly 
not be any additional peace in her lot. Nesbit had 
the tenacity of a bull dog. Behind him, Radstock 
and his wife would work to assist the proprietor 
of the Palm Hotel. 

The day turned towards the deep, strong tones of 
afternoon, and from that to delicate mauve, and 
through magic changes into purple, and at last to 
blue, until all the world beyond his window melted 
into a vague impression of exquisitely soft shadows 
and faint, tender lines of feathery palms, fused into 
an intangible whole, and making place for the deep 
lapis blue of the night. 

And it was only when his Goanese boy had re- 
minded him twice that dinner was ready, that Dillon 
aroused himself from his thoughts and dressed as 
quickly as he could. He had made up his mind to 
go to Rosemary Villa as usual that night, and en- 
deavour to see Marion, and take her, as the strong 
man takes the kingdom of heaven, by sheer force 
of his own restless personality. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Marion returned to the house, feeling as though a 
mine had exploded under her feet. She had suf- 
fered from the coarse love-making of Nesbit, whose 
feelings, once he understood that she was refusing 
his offer to marry her, had taken an ugly turn. He 
had not spared her, and he reviled Radstock and 
his wife, in his determination to humble her pride. 
Who was she, to set herself up on a pedestal and 
scorn the offer of a decent man? It was sheer 
lunacy on her part to lose her best chance. 

She still suffered from the touch of his hands as 
he had grasped at her and tried to prevent her es- 
cape, and her cheeks grew hot at the memory. Dil- 
lon had come in response to her cry for help, and 
then, upon his coming, she had heard Nesbit’s horse 
angry voice shout insults once again, but this time 
it had mattered more — far more. 

She crouched on the floor by her bed, in the great 
sparsely-furnished room where she slept, a lighted 
wick floating in a saucer of oil throwing its meagre 
illumination to the ceiling. There had been some- 
thing else as well as anger in Nesbit’s voice ; he spoke 
out of a firm belief in all he said, and his sincerity 
hit the quivering mark of her own heart. What he 
had said of Dillon’s record hurt her to recall. She 
shut her eyes tightly, as people do who are suffering 
from acute physical pain. 

162 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


163 

Every detail of the picture was impressed upon 
her memory, and she told herself that as long as she 
lived she would never forget the white moonlight 
in the garden, and the sparkling line of diamond 
light, where the rays pierced through the trees and 
fell upon the water of the pond below the stone 
steps. There was no luxury in her grief; it came 
upon her, hard and bitter as an iron yoke, and then 
she laughed because tears were of no avail. She was 
aflame with indignation. Dillon had imposed his 
personality upon her and, like a fool, she had refused 
to admit the all too obvious facts connected with 
him. 

He was linked in a dishonourable partnership 
with her uncle, living in Rangoon as a rich man so 
that he could collect his dupes the more easily, and 
every detail of his life was a lie. He had a man’s 
way with his fists, and for that much, she thanked 
him; but it did not exonerate him. Some instinct 
of former tradition still remained underneath the 
rubbish and the lies, and could be evoked, but the 
balance was loaded up against him. 

Marion got up from the floor and went to her 
dressing-table, and with hands which trembled in 
spite of herself, she repaired the tear at the shoulder 
of her dress. She had been blind-folded for long 
enough, and intended to have things out with her 
aunt; she and her uncle had their own perpetual 
schemes, and the stifling sense of being fooled on 
every hand worked in her mind. To-night, she told 
herself she would end it all. 

Making her way along the passage and down the 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


164 

staircase she peered over the balustrade and listened. 
The guests had all gone, and she trusted to find her 
uncle in his room at the end of the passage. Her 
heart was throbbing and her nerves tingled as she 
crossed the veranda and took her way cautiously 
towards the closed door at the end of the covered 
way; and standing outside for a moment, she heard 
her aunt’s voice speaking from within. Mrs. Rad- 
stock was evidently replying to something her hus- 
band had said. 

“I wish she could be got out of the way,” the 
words came to Marion, “Nesbit will make trouble.” 

“There’s that fool Rutherford . . 

Marion pushed the door open and stood facing 
them. 

“If you are disposing of me,” she said tempes- 
tuously, “I prefer to have some say in it myself.” 

Radstock looked up and shrugged his shoulders 
carelessly. He was entirely indifferent to her, and 
her aunt, who was sitting with her large, strong 
hands clasped before her on the table, gave her a 
cold glance of contempt. 

“You appear to have listened at the door,” she 
said in chilling tones; “as you have done so, it sim- 
plifies matters. Your uncle and I, as we are your 
guardians while you remain here, are anxious to see 
you settled. In our judgment, it is best for you to 
marry Mr. Nesbit.” 

It seemed to Marion as though a cord had been 
tightened round her throat, and she was being 
strangled. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 165 

u Best for me?” she repeated. ‘After the insuf- 
ferable way he has behaved to-night?” 

“Come now, come now,” Radstock interposed, 
“don’t try that kind of talk here. You’re penni- 
less, and we can’t help you for ever.” He got up 
and stood with his hands in his pockets. “If you’d 
been a cheery, hearty, nice natured girl, and helped 
a bit, I’d not force the question; but, as it is, you’re 
a kill-joy. That’s what you are.” 

“You want me to go away?” she asked. 

“I’ve shown you a great deal of patience,” her 
aunt replied, “and your ridiculous infatuation for 
Dillon is only a girl’s madness.” 

Marion threw out her hands desperately. “Mr. 
Dillon was kind to me on the voyage,” she said, her 
voice trembling. She had denounced him to herself 
in her heart, but she could not speak against him in 
the presence of the two who watched her with such 
deeply malevolent eyes. 

“Have the truth about him,” her uncle said sav- 
agely. “He’s been a convict, and is married or tied 
up to a broken-down concert singer. She broke her- 
self keeping him decently clothed, if you want to 
know, and he’s never done an honest day’s work in 
his life. He was sent to me with a dirty record.” 

“Then why . . .?” she began. 

“Because I wanted a fellow who wasn’t squeam- 
ish. It’s time you opened your eyes and looked 
about you.” He grew more heated and angry. 
“I’m sick of the sight of you myself.” 

“Aunt Mildred!” Marion turned towards her 
imploringly. She always liked her aunt, and yet 


1 66 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

there was no pity in her eyes now and she did not 
move. 

“What your uncle says is perfectly true,” she said, 
her sombre look darker than usual. “It’s been a 
failure, the whole arrangement.” 

“I could have got a dozen girls who would have 
jumped at your chance,” Radstock said insolently, 
“jumped at it. Take what you’re offered, and be 
thankful you have such a first-class opportunity,” 
he laughed unpleasantly. “Nesbit’s a fine man, any 
girl might be proud to marry him.” 

“But where shall I go?” she said desperately, 
speaking more to herself than to Radstock and his 
wife. 

“Try your other chance,” Radstock suggested. 
“A fool makes a good husband — you’ve got Ruther- 
ford to fall back upon.” 

Marion faltered for a moment. Was it any use 
speaking to them, or telling them of the scorn she 
felt? Any use to bare her heart to fresh wounds 
when she had already suffered so much in the course 
of a few hours. It was rather the moment for her 
to get away from voices and faces, and think things 
out alone. She took one quick glance around her 
and, without a word, she closed the door and went 
back to her room. 

When she had gone, Radstock sat down again and 
looked at his wife. He had used the whip, and felt 
a great satisfaction in the recollection. “We don’t 
want her,” he said. “That should shift her out.” 

“It won’t make her marry Nesbit.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


167 

“I don’t so much care.” Radstock whistled gently 
to himself. “She’s no use to us, Mildred, and 
though the club is paying and things look all right, 
you can’t be sure of anything going on till kingdom 
come.” 

“I am not sure of it,” she agreed gloomily. 

“It wouldn’t take much to kick over the cart,” 
Radstock continued reflectively. “If it got known 
that Dillon is an impostor, or that Rutherford has 
lost so much as he has,” he broke off and wiped his 
face with his handkerchief. “I’d like to strangle 
that girl. Why can’t she help? If she had any 
spirit in her she’d play the game. Here we are in 
difficulties with Nesbit, and Rutherford is gambling 
like a madman because she gets on her high horse. 
She’s been the damnedest mistake we ever made, and 
it’s time she cleared.” 

“You can tell Rutherford to pull up,” Mrs. Rad- 
stock suggested. “Warn him.” 

“I have,” Radstock snapped irritably. “Nesbit 
has, but he wants to get back on his losses.” 

Mrs. Radstock got up and spoke slowly: “I know 
Marion better than you do,” she said. “The ex- 
planation in her case is, that she is in love with 
Dillon.” She gave a cruel little laugh. “But that 
won’t stand what she has heard to-night, I think.” 
She stared before her with steady intentness. “To- 
morrow, when he comes, it might be as well to let 
her hear the facts again in his presence.” 

“And I am to be worried by all this footling non- 
sense,” he retorted furiously. “Where’s what we 
spent on her to make her look the part? It might as 


1 68 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


well have been thrown into the river. I smoothed 
Nesbit down as well as I could, but she’ll undo it 
all. The one thing you can count on her for is 
trouble.” 

He seemed to see his dreams vanishing out of 
reach, and, small and petty as he was, he nearly 
towered in his wrath. 

“I know,” Mrs. Radstock said, narrowing her 
eyes; “but Dillon has been useful.” 

“I can run without him now,” Radstock said, pour- 
ing himself out a stiff peg. “Why not let him have 
her? Get them both cleared off. I believe that’s 
a good idea, Mildred.” He drank, and breathed 
hard. 

“No,” his wife replied with a sudden touch of 
feeling. “I don’t care for Marion, but I won’t do 
that or have any hand in it. I’ll stand between her 
and ruin so long as I can; and, in any case,” she 
added, “I do not think that Marion would take such 
a step.” 

Radstock did not speak again. He took out an 
account book from a drawer in his writing-table and 
sat down to study it closely, neither did he turn as 
Mrs. Radstock left the room. 

It seemed to her that if she could urge or per- 
suade Marion into an arrangement with Rutherford, 
the situation might be saved. Even with his debts, 
he was something of a match for a girl placed in 
her equivocal situation, and she might count herself 
lucky. The Rutherfords held a good position in 
Burma, and were not likely to let their son go under 
because of his debts. On one score, her own con- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 169 

science was quite clear. She had done what she 
could to prevent Dillon having any easy chance to 
get hold of her niece, and, hardened as she was, 
she regarded him with deep loathing and contempt. 
His evident admiration for the girl had been enough, 
and she saw him as a wholly unscrupulous and heart- 
less vagabond, whose looks and manner made it 
easy for him to strew his way with conquest. 

Nesbit would make his anger felt by both her 
and her husband — that was unavoidable; but with 
Marion officially engaged to Rutherford, he could 
say and do very little. She thought the whole ques- 
tion over sitting in her bedroom, and the only detail 
missing from her plan was the acquiescence of her 
niece. Any softer feelings she had asserted them- 
selves, and she grew less rigid than usual. Some 
lost gleam of kindness or romance touched her for 
a moment. Suffy Rutherford had a way of making 
women sorry for him,» and even the world-hardened 
heart of Mrs. Radstock melted a little as she thought 
of him. She would do what she could to further his 
plans, just as she had acted steadily against Dillon 
from the first. 

As for Marion, there was very little sleep for her 
that night. She had to crush down a great tearing 
anguish in her heart. To lose what we love in life 
is far more bitter than to lose it through death. 
To see that the subject of all the impulse and longing 
in our heart is hopelessly and utterly unworthy, is a 
far more cruel experience than loneliness and despair. 
All the courage of her early upbringing could not 
protect her in the dark hour which had come upon 


170 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


her, and anything her aunt and uncle had added to 
it by their unkindness was as nothing in face of the 
facts themselves. Life looked so long and dreary, 
stretching out ahead of her through the years. Love 
would be around her, in the skies and flowers, in 
music and in every beautiful object upon which her 
eyes might dwell; but personal love, with its warmth 
and glory, could never return to her any more. 

She bent her head before the blow, and sat very 
quietly looking out of the window of her room. The 
agony of her pain did not lessen as she forced herself 
to face her trouble. Quentin was false to the core, 
and had hidden the details of his shameful past 
history. There seemed to be two ways in which one 
could accept such a deep hurt. One was to care 
nothing, and grasp at the nearest reckless folly which 
offered, do anything, however mad and despicable, 
to escape; the other, to rally the powers of the soul, 
and force oneself to see that life has to be lived 
sanely and decently, even if you are mocked by fate, 
or have lost sight of the stars. In those hours she 
developed unconsciously in the school of pain, realis- 
ing that we all of us stand alone. She had suffered 
from a host of petty insults flung at her by people 
she hardly knew, since she had come to live with her 
uncle and aunt, and she was a dead weight upon their 
hands — a fact they no longer troubled to disguise. 

Nothing could be more humiliating than her posi- 
tion as unwanted dependent in a house where, in 
any case, her life was utterly distasteful to her, and 
yet she could see no way out wherever she looked. 

From clear grey the sky changed to faint orange, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


171 

and then to vivid crimson, as the sunrise caught the 
waiting world into its glory of colour and light. In- 
distinct objects became clear, and the garden dis- 
closed itself in fresh beauty. There was none of the 
tenderness of the West in the majestic splendour, 
and day sprang suddenly upon her as Marion 
watched with haggard, weary eyes. She had been 
trying to come to a conclusion, and when she dragged 
herself to her bed, she had made up her mind. If 
Rutherford loved her, he might be content to accept 
the cold submission which was all she had to give 
him in return. It would be a way 6f escape, and 
in her ignorance of life Marion Keith tried to be- 
lieve that by starting out upon a mad adventure one 
could leave the old things behind. She had not yet 
learnt that the shadows of memory are long ones, and 
that the one person from whom none of us can hope 
to escape is our own individual self. Circumstances 
could be changed, surroundings altered, but Marion 
Keith, according to the law which is immutable and 
steadfast, could never be other than Marion Keith. 
Yet she thought she had made a decision, and though 
it did not promise her a single flicker of either hope 
or joy, it was something to have arrived even at a 
lame conclusion. One day more she claimed for her- 
self, and after that she would give Suffy Rutherford 
the opportunity he so anxiously sought. 

Her eyes dosed and she slept. 


CHAPTER XV 


Quentin was waiting for his pony to be brought 
to the door of the Mandalay Hotel, and the current 
of people coming and going made an interesting 
picture for him. The hot, windless day was yet in 
the early hours, and a queer procession, gay and 
crudely coloured, which might have been a wedding 
but was in reality a Hindu funeral, went along the 
road, the noisy crowd following, while a tragic little 
band played in excruciating discord the air, “Oh! 
where and oh! where has my Hieland laddie gone?” 
The cheerful mourners swept out of sight, and a 
group of yellow-clad Hypongys sauntered after 
them, more or less interested in anything which hap- 
pened in the streets, their priestly caste forming no 
obstacle to any amusement they might pick up in- 
cidentally in the romantic highways of the town. 
Dillon smiled as he saw them go. He liked the 
passionate colour of it all, and a little Burmese girl 
on her way to the temple offered him a flower which 
had been sprinkled with gold dust, with a smile, 
for which he paid her a rupee, and he put the flower 
in his coat. 

A narrow street lay before the steps of the Man- 
dalay Hotel, and the stream of life flowed on per- 
petually between the booths and beneath overhang- 
ing balconies — a river of saffron and magenta, tur- 
172 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


173 

quoise blue and vivid green, while a beggar, sitting 
close to the entrance of the hotel called with a 
piercing cry for alms. 

It was through this wilderness of brilliant tints 
and dyes that Dillon suddenly recognised Swimerton 
driving towards him. He looked strained and wor- 
ried, and he raised his hand to Quentin, indicating 
that he wanted to speak to him. 

Dillon came down the steps slowly. He guessed 
that it was out out of no special feeling of friend- 
ship towards him that Swimerton was there, and he 
realised that he must be on guard. 

“I’d like a word or two with you, Dillon,” Swim- 
erton said, getting out of his small car; “where can 
we be alone?” 

“There is my room,” Quentin suggested, and he 
turned to his syce who had come up, leading his 
pony, and told him to wait in the shade of the hotel 
compound, Swimerton watching him closely all the 
time. 

“I have come to you,” he said, speaking to Dillon 
as they walked into the veranda outside Quentin’s 
room and sat down in two long chairs, “though why 
I should have decided to speak to you I hardly 
know. You’re up to the neck in this business, as 
much as Rutherford and Nesbit.” 

Dillon offered him a cigar and nodded silently. 
He could not very well repudiate his partners, and 
ror the moment he judged it best to say nothing. 

“I saw Rutherford’s father this morning,” Swim- 
erton went on, frowning heavily and waving the 
cigar-case aside. “I do not intend to suggest to 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


174 

you that the interview was a pleasant one. Some- 
thing had got to his ears, and — for reasons — he 
came direct to me.” 

Leaning back in his chair, the picture of indifferent 
ease, Dillon read between the lines of the statement. 
Rutherford’s father had evidently got word of the 
fact that Swimerton was an habitue of Rosemary 
Villa. He must have threatened him with exposure. 
Having decided that it was thus the land lay, Quen- 
tin looked at Swimerton through half-closed eyes. 

‘As I said,” Swimerton coughed harshly, “he saw 
fit to come to me, and the upshot of it all is that 
young Rutherford is to be stopped. He isn’t to 
be allowed to gamble any more. D’you understand 
that?” 

“And who is to stop him?” 

Swimerton gave a groan of irritated exasperation. 
“I’m here to ask you to do something about it,” he 
said. “I might have seen Radstock or Nesbit, but 
to be quite frank,” he moved uneasily in his chair, 
“I simply couldn’t bring myself to — Oh,” he waved 
his hand, “whatever you really are, you give the im- 
pression of being a gentleman.” 

“Even so,” Quentin looked at his guest again, 
“I am not responsible for what Rutherford chooses 
to do. I’ll reason with him, if that is any use, but 
it does not lie with me to chuck him out if he turns 
up and wants to play.” 

Swimerton’s face was ghastly white, and he stared 
from under his lined forehead with wide-open, 
strained eyes. “I have given my word to Ruther- 
ford that his son shall not play again,” he said. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


175 

There was a moment’s complete silence between 
the two men, and then Dillon spoke. “Then, surely, 
it is for you to see that it is carried out.” 

Swimerton leaned forward and struck the small 
table between them with his fist. “It’s a bigger 
matter than that,” he said angrily, “and if you force 
me to plain speech, you must have it. Radstock’s 
reputation stinks to the skies in Rangoon. There 
hasn’t been a shady deal pulled off in this place since 
he came here that he hasn’t had a hand in. Nesbit 
is only a little better, and as for you — I hear queer 
things said of you, Mr. Dillon.” 

“Quite possibly,” Dillon agreed. His own tem- 
per, which was a cold one, was stirring, and he 
needed all his self-control. “It is just as well, inci- 
dentally, not to believe all you hear.” 

“I do believe it. Otherwise why are you in with 
that lot?” 

“For quite a number of reasons, one of them be- 
ing, possibly, no better a one than your own. I like 
gambling.” 

Swimerton drew a hard breath. “You do not un- 
derstand the position,” he said, swallowing down 
his irritation. “I am not here to exchange personal 
insults with you. I came on behalf of my old 
friend.” 

“And my reply is that I am sorry for Ruther- 
ford, who is a fool, and that if arguments are to be 
used, it is for you, and not me, to use them. I have 
no influence over him one way or other.” 

Swimerton brooded heavily for a time, sitting 
with his hands clasped between his knees. He 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


176 

seemed wretchedly uneasy and yet could not bring 
himself to ask a favour. In the end he spoke with 
a sudden rush of hostility. “There is another ar- 
gument,” he said, “though it is one I do not want to 
use. If it comes to the knowledge of Sir Walter 
Rutherford that nothing has been done, he will make 
it his business to lay the matter before His Excel- 
lency. Once it gets to that, you are only a fish on 
the bank, I take it, for the club will be closed, and 
your partnership smashed. How does that strike 
you as an alternative?” He watched the effect of 
his words. “From the point of view of self-interest 
it would be, I imagine, better for you three to decide 
upon refusing to permit Rutherford to play.” 

It all mattered very little to Quentin Dillon, and 
yet some obstinate streak in his nature hardened 
under threats, so he knocked the ash off his cigar 
and looked Swimerton in the eyes. “I agree with 
you that it is not a particularly amusing sight to 
watch a man ruin himself,” he said slowly. “I 
should be glad, personally, to see Rutherford stand 
out. But, as you know, the club is run on straight 
lines, and if he plays he takes his chance with the 
rest of us. What I do object to,” he leaned for- 
ward a little, “is that you should require me to do 
your dirty work. You don’t want it made public 
that you play, night after night, at Rosemary Villa 
so long as Rangoon is empty and you do not fear to 
be detected. Once your own skin is threatened you 
come here to me, and try to jockey me into carrying 
through what you are pledged to do yourself. You 
have made yourself personally insulting to me, a 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 177 

thing I permit from no man, and if you want a reply, 
mine is, flatly, this — take your wares to some other 
market. Go to Rutherford and speak to him, or 
try if you can induce Radstock to agree, or Nesbit. 
In any case, don’t imagine you can gain your point 
by threats where I’m concerned.” 

Swimerton looked at him silently and rose to his 
feet. He seemed to have nothing left to say, but 
his anger showed itself in his eyes and the tight com- 
pression of his mouth. He was an important man 
in his profession, and though he had fallen through 
weakness into the habit of play, he regarded him- 
self as powerful. Now a man whom he held in 
contempt as a well-dressed swindler, and who was 
far beneath him socially, had dared to speak to him 
as he had never been spoken to before. He could 
have used the cutting whip which lay on the table 
across Dillon’s face, and his hands itched to snatch 
it up, but once again something he could not define 
in his adversary stopped him, and he faltered. 

Dillon got up and stood leaning against one of 
the supports of the veranda. Having dealt with 
Swimerton as he felt he deserved to be dealt with, 
he was now in a mood to relent a little. 

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” he said with his 
quick, boyish smile, which either aggravated or dis- 
armed hostility. “On my own account, and leaving, 
you out of the reckoning, Swimerton, I will give 
Radstock a hint to-night, and will see whether, be- 
tween us, we can use persuasion. Only take it from 
me, that your threat has not influenced me one hair. 
Show up the club if you feel it will make you any 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


178 

happier, and get the Lieutenant-Governor to use his 
influence to close the place down. You’ll be doing 
a good action if you do.” 

Swimerton rocked between two minds, and his 
rage cooled down suddenly. “I believe you’re speak- 
ing the truth,” he said in a voice of blank astonish- 
ment. 

Quentin nodded. He had conquered, and though 
there was not very much pleasure for him in those 
days, he experienced a faint sense of satisfaction. 
After all, what right had he to complain? Swim- 
erton spoke, not to him, but to the man whom he 
was supposed to be, and in spite of that the real 
Quentin Dillon had scored a victory. 

“Do you really mean that you don’t care if the club 
is closed?” Swimerton asked doubtfully. 

“I don’t care what is done about it,” Dillon looked 
away over the city, lying below him. “As you know, 
I had a row with Nesbit last night, and I have left 
the Palm Hotel.” 

“I know that, because I went there first to find 
you.” 

“It is quite likely,” Quentin continued, “that I 
shall end my own connection with Radstock.” 

“I have regretted,” Swimerton began, with a 
heavy flush, “that I ever went there.” He stopped 
and looked down. It was strange to talk of his 
most intimate feelings to Dillon, and he had done 
so on a sudden impulse that surprised him. 

“Then I’ll do what I can,” Quentin said, break- 
ing up the slightly emotional sense of the silence. It 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


179 

made him feel awkward, and he had no desire to 
continue the conversation any longer. 

“Very well,” Swimerton agreed. “I am grateful 
to you, Dillon, and if I spoke rather hastily, I am 
prepared to withdraw what I said.” He held out 
his hand, and they parted, Swimerton getting into 
his car in the compound below, and Dillon standing 
where he was, watching him with his dark, strong 
eyes. He did not think very long of Swimerton or 
their interview, for his mind went back to Marion 
Keith. What was she doing, and did she believe the 
charges which had been made against him? How 
was he to put his own house in order? 

He paced the veranda with his hands deep in his 
pockets, thinking steadily. 

After all, there was no reason why he should not 
tell her the truth, and no reason why she should not 
believe it when he did. She should know the whole 
facts of the case, and either exonerate him or, at 
least, bid him good-bye without being in doubt any 
more of what the truth really was. He could not 
be sure that she loved him, but the strongest desire 
in his heart was to stand cleared in her eyes. Once 
he had established himself as a decent member of 
society he would be able at last to breathe freely 
again. 

He went down to the compound and got on to his 
pony, riding out into the strong, hard sunlight with 
a feeling of increasing happiness in his heart, every 
longing he had for her growing stronger. The im- 
age of her face was as clear in his eyes as though 
he actually saw her, and he greeted her in spirit. 


i8o 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


He intended to go to Rosemary Villa that evening, 
carrying out what he had promised in connection 
with Rutherford, and see Marion, placing his future 
in her hands. 

From point to higher point his spirits rose up- 
wards, and the sheer delight bore him company as 
he rode under the heavy shadows of the trees. 
William Dillon, with his ugly past, was only a bogey 
whom he intended to exorcise. Not a real person, 
with his unwashed hands and ill-shaven chin. He 
had acted as an agent of fate, and brought about 
Quentin’s further meeting with Marion Keith, so 
he still owed him much for that. As a pawn in the 
queer game of life he had done his work, and there 
must be an end of him and all his devious ways, once 
and for all. 

Quentin thought of the evening which lay ahead 
of him, and his eyes softened. So far as he saw 
it, there was no insuperable difficulty ahead. But 
human eyes cannot see very far, and Dillon’s were 
more than a little blinded by the dazzling glory of 
his love. 

The last person he gave any special thought to 
was Rutherford. He fully intended to speak out to 
Suffy, telling him that he was every kind of fool. 
He despised the hand-to-mouth existence which was 
sufficient for Rutherford, and was far from under- 
standing his weakness. 

To be one of those people who never know either 
what they are doing or what they want to do, was 
utterly inexplicable to the mind of Quentin Dillon. 
While he was fully prepared to admit that he himself 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 181 

was capable of wild and inconsequent action, he had 
no use whatever for the type of man who can be 
blown hither and thither by every wind of chance, 
with loosely-flapping sails and idle helm. He was 
quite human enough to resent Suffy’s sentimental 
adoration of Marion Keith, and though, compared 
with the brutal insolence of Nesbit, Suffy might be 
said to be sans peur et sans reproche, he had no 
rights, in the eyes of Quentin. He would have 
liked to have cleared him out of the way with a 
gesture of wide indifference, and that was exactly 
what he intended to do. He forgot, or he did not 
realise, that fools have a way of causing endless 
difficulties, not only for themselves but for others, 
as they wander blindly along the path of life, inter- 
rupting the plans of the wise, and not infrequently 
reducing them to chaos*. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Things in the abstract which seem possible, have an 
uncomfortable way of becoming grave and menacing 
as we draw nearer, because the gulf which separates 
thought from action is a much wider one than we 
imagine, until we attempt the crossing. For Marion 
Keith, it was easy enough to regard an engagement 
with Rutherford as being a possible way of escape, 
but in the morning when she reviewed the situation 
afresh she shrank back. 

Terror of life has the stupefying effect of a drug, 
and her fear remained with her and shadowed her as 
she joined her. aunt at breakfast. 

Mrs. Radstock showed a kinder face again, but 
there was no forgetting the events of the previous 
night, and Marion’s manner was constrained and 
self-conscious. They avoided any intimate talk, and 
Marion excused herself as soon as she could, and 
went out and wandered in the garden. She was 
still miserably undecided and could not tell what she 
would do, until at length she went through the gate 
and took her way into the city; trying to comfort 
herself with the light and colour around her. 

Her pride had suffered from what her uncle had 
said to her, and to break his bread was bitterness. 
She told herself that she could not continue to be 
dependent upon him, and yet the alternative was 
182 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


183 

abhorrent to her, and the idea of making herself over 
to Rutherford merely because she could see no other 
way of escape, seemed not only unbearable, but in- 
trinsically mean. 

Lost in her troubled thoughts, she went along a 
colonnade in the Chinese quarter where the shadows 
were dark, and it was very unlikely she would meet 
anyone she knew; so that it came with a shock of 
surprise when she heard her own name spoken, and 
Mrs. Grant, the wife of the American Baptist mis- 
sionary, greeted her with great enthusiasm. 

Mrs. Grant was one of those people who are inno- 
cent of any hint of the artistic temperament, and 
are wonderfully consoling in times of stress. Her 
outlook on life was narrow, but clear, and she had 
no gifts of conversation, though she talked a great 
deal of little events, and had a happy laugh. She 
was stout and robust, and her voice had a high, 
cheery note. Tragedy had never touched her, and 
she suggested farmyards and hayfields, rather than 
courts or palaces. She brought you down to the 
commonplace with a run, and made it appear a good, 
unexacting level to dwell upon. Just then, her ar- 
rival was little short of an angelic visitation to the 
tired eyes of Marion Keith, and her kiss was in it- 
self a benediction. 

“You aren’t looking too grand,” she remarked as 
she took Marion’s arm, looking up at her, for she 
was short and square in build. “I believe you need 
a change.” 

“I’m sure I do,” Marion smiled rather wistfully, 
“but I don’t see how I shall arrive at it,” 


184 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“Come to us,” Mrs. Grant said with friendly hos- 
pitality. “Jeremy thought a lot of you, and said 
you had intelligence.” 

Marion shook her head. What was the use of 
suggesting to her uncle that she should go to these 
kind friends? Her uncle and aunt might agree, but 
it would only be running away from facts. The 
prospect, nevertheless, was alluring, and she thought 
of it with a desperate longing for peace. 

Chattering as she went, Mrs. Grant pressed the 
point. There was fresh air to be had at Myittha 
which, as she had no words to express its glories, 
she described as a “very nice little place indeed.” 
You got there by river boat, and it lay below the 
Katchin Mountains in the ruby mine district, and 
all along the hills there were ruins of pagodas, mys- 
terious and ghostly, like the fragments of old 
dreams. 

“Any time you feel like it, Marion dear, just come 
along,” she said as they parted outside a huge shop 
which was a kind of general store. “You can count 
on a welcome, and I can tell you that I don’t think 
Rangoon suits you in the least.” 

When Marion turned away, Mrs. Grant ran after 
her again and called to her. “I forgot to ask after 
Mr. Dillon. Do you ever see him?” 

“Quite often,” Marion said, her delicate colour 
flushing up suddenly. “He is in partnership with 
my uncle.” 

Mrs. Grant nodded and smiled and said no more; 
but when Marion had vanished into the crowd she 
pursed her lips and thought for a little before she 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


185 

plunged into the shop. The world, for her, was di- 
vided into people who were “nice,” or those who 
were “not nice,” and she knew only too well that 
Radstock belonged to the latter category. No one 
called him “nice,” and she had been half inclined to 
think Dillon rather worldly, because his clothes fitted 
him so well, and he seemed to have such a number 
of expensive socks and handkerchiefs, but even so, 
she had scented romance and hoped that “something 
would come of it.” If Dillon was hand in glove 
with Radstock she could only pray that nothing 
would come of it, even though she had a deep-rooted 
love of romance. 

Marion Keith was, in her eyes, a lovely and dis- 
tinguished-looking girl, and she longed to think of 
her as happy, but one shrewd look in her eyes had 
banished any illusions she could have had on that 
score. She decided to tell Jeremy about it and ask 
his advice, for she had an unshaken faith in his wis- 
dom. 

The chance meeting with Mrs. Grant had lifted 
a little of the depression which brooded over Marion 
Keith, and as she went back to Rosemary Villa, she 
felt the relief which it always brings, to know that 
some people are so far blessed by fate that their lives 
are steadily normal. Mrs. Grant gave that assur- 
ance only to look at her. She recalled remembrances 
of the faithful days when her own life had been 
something firmly established, and she could tell what 
the weeks would bring. 

Again and again the thought of going up the rest- 
ful waterway of the Irrawaddy to Myittha, which 


1 86 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


was a “very nice little place indeed,” and where the 
hills themselves repeated fairy-tales to the weary 
soul, and to creep into the quiet of a religiously- 
ordered life, where Jeremy read family prayers, and 
where such an existence as that in Rosemary Villa 
would be regarded as the wildest fiction. It would 
be like a return to childhood’s days again, and Mar- 
ion’s heart ached sorely with the very thought of it. 

Love was broken and cast aside, and illusion lay 
shattered at her feet, and now she was on her way 
to make the beginning of a huge pretence which 
might last a life-time. She looked around her des- 
perately as she closed the gate of the garden and 
stood within. 

Her aunt was standing in the veranda, smiling at 
her in a way which awoke fresh fears. Such a wel- 
come only meant that she was to be forced to do 
something against which she was likely to revolt. 

“Rutherford has been here,” Mrs. Radstock 
said. “I think he wanted to see you, child; but he 
has gone.” 

Marion trembled suddenly. Her nerves were 
overstrained, and she lost courage for the moment 
— a critical situation for anyone; the more so be- 
cause panic frequently hides behind it. 

“I shall see him some other time,” she said eva- 
sively. “My head is aching, Aunt Mildred.” 

“Then go and lie down,” her aunt suggested. 
“You look very white and tired. When you are 
my age, Marion, you won’t trouble yourself so much 
about things.” 

Marion went to her room and closed the door. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 187 

She moved about mechanically and collected some 
clothes which she wrapped up in a thick piece o£ 
brown paper, and counted over the money in her 
purse. Ten pounds was left to her, and she had 
still a hundred at the bank. If she went at once 
to her aunt and told her that she wished to go away 
to Mrs. Grant, she might obtain a grudging consent, 
but her own forces were down to zero, and she could 
not face the thought of a contest of words. She 
did not admit to herself that she intended to go 
away, but if she did go, it was open to Rutherford, 
or even Nesbit, to follow her, and, for the moment, 
she longed for complete peace. Mrs. Grant had 
told her how to get to Myittha; she was catching 
one of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company’s boats at 
midday, and according to the tides, the next would 
leave that night, and then there would not be another 
for several days. 

Marion’s mind dwelt on the thought longingly, 
and after a time she grew quieter. The position 
had so far improved that she was now able to con- 
sider a possible alternative. The day passed wear- 
ily, and towards late afternoon Marion walked into 
the veranda. Rutherford was sitting at the further 
end, looking dully in front of him, but at the sound 
of her step he glanced up and smiled. He came 
towards her; short, woebegone and pathetic, and 
putting his hand on his heart, he bowed with a pre- 
tence at lightness. 

“So you have come at last,” he said, arranging 
the cushions in a low chair. “Mrs. Radstock said 
that you wculd.” 


1 8 8 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


Marion looked at him sideways. Her aunt had 
said she would come, and what else had she said? 
Marion begged the question, with a hopeless attempt 
to postpone the inevitable. She could see every line 
in his face, with the signature of early dissipation 
scored on it, and she shuddered slightly. Where 
was there any glory in love given too late, by a man 
who had slid too far down the easy way to the 
gutter? No doubt he was done with the husks for 
ever now, but the past remained, and had marred him 
hopelessly. 

He moved a little restlessly, and spoke. “I had 
a talk with Mrs. Rad,” he said awkwardly, “and 
both she and your uncle are satisfied — I mean, I have 
their consent, Marion.” 

“Consent to what?” she asked. 

“Mrs. Rad told me,” he went on quickly, “that 
you do care a little . . . and I love you so much 
that I am prepared to take you on any terms. At 
present, it’s true, I am in some difficulties, but I 
believe my luck is in at last.” His temperamental 
optimism caught him and he spoke hopefully. 

“So my Aunt Mildred gave you to understand that 
I cared for you?” Marion said quietly. 

“Don’t blame her for it.” He leaned forward. 
“I shouldn’t have ventured to speak otherwise. I 
can take you away from here, and Nesbit won’t dare 
to trouble you again. Look at me, Marion, and tell 
me that you really do mean to be my wife.” 

She looked at him, recalling the hours of the 
previous night and wondering at her own acquies- 
cence in any such plan, 'l Here he v/as; kind, cer- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 189 

tainly, and willing to be indulgent and generous, 
but as she felt his hands touch hers, she snatched 
them away. His thin hair and pale blue eyes, his 
fixed way of smiling and his noisy laugh jarred on 
her excruciatingly, though he was far from laughter 
at that moment, and very much closer to tears. 

“Aunt Mildred spoke without any right what- 
ever,” she said, getting up with an angry gesture 
of refusal. “I care nothing at all for you. If you 
think that I should let Mr. Nesbit force me into 
an engagement with you, you are wrong. If I have 
any feeling for you at all, it is, or was, one of friend- 
ship, and now you have deliberately spoiled that.” 

“Married to such as he!” she thought. “A man 
whom other men laughed at while they stood him 
drinks so that he would become ‘funny,’ a man who 
did not, in her eyes, possess a single decent stand- 
ard,” and then she thought of Dillon, and at the 
thought she covered her face with her hands and 
broke away from Rutherford with a stifled cry, so 
poignant and full of anguish that he stood back and 
watched her go without saying another word. 

Yet she came down to dinner, paler than usual 
but quite calm and self-possessed, and when her aunt 
remarked that the vacant place had been laid for 
Rutherford, wondering why he had not come, Mar- 
ion acted her part creditably. 

“He is coming back later,” she said. “He asked 
me to give him an answer to a question, and when 
he comes, it is ready for him.” 

“Good girl,” Radstock said with a laugh. “Get- 
ting sense, eh? I’m glad to hear it” 


190 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“I think you are right,” Mrs. Radstock said delib- 
erately. “It is easy to guess what the question 
was.” 

Marion relapsed into silence. She sat looking at 
the worn tablecloth and the tarnished Burmese silver 
which stood on it; every detail was photographed on 
her memory. The servants came and went, fighting 
in an ill-conditioned way outside the room, and look- 
ing unkempt and wild as they carried in dishes and 
plates. When they dined alone, no attempt at dis- 
play was ever made, and a few half-faded roses in 
a bowl formed the only effort at decoration. Can- 
dles with glass shades threw an insufficient light 
around, and Radstock and his wife sat there with- 
out speaking. There was something sinister and un- 
earthly in the room, and no one made any effort 
to dispel the increasing and ever-deepening silence. 

It was the last night Marion Keith ever intended 
to sit there with her aunt and uncle or break their 
bread. Whatever came of it, she was going to 
catch the Flotilla boat and get up the river to 
Myittha, where no one could possibly follow her for 
at least a week. 

During that time anything might have happened, 
and at least she would be clear of Rosemary Villa 
and all the horror she had suffered during the time 
she had been there. 

When dessert was set out before them, Marion ex- 
cused herself and left the room like a shadow. 

“She intends to marry the fool,” Radstock said, 
filling his glass with port from a decanter. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


191 

“It looks as though she has made up her mind,” 
Mrs. Radstock agreed, and they were silent again. 

After a time Radstock looked at the clock. “We 
open at ten,” he said. “I expect one or two new 
fellows in to-night. Nesbit will be pretty sore.” 

“Don’t go out.” Mrs. Radstock awoke from her 
thoughts. “Marion and Rutherford are probably 
in the veranda, and I don’t want them disturbed. If 
anything were to pull her up now, the whole thing 
might be off. Her heart is now in it.” 

“Her heart!” jeered Radstock. “What has that 
got to do with it? You heard her say herself that 
Rutherford was coming and she ha>d her answer 
ready; that’s straight talk, isn’t it? She’s got an eye 
for getting on in life.” 

Mrs. Radstock did not reply, and once again the 
slow, heavy silence fell in the room," and the two 
looked before them, immersed in their own thoughts ; 
and then, with violent suddenness, the silence was 
smashed like a pane of glass by the loud report of 
a shot fired close to the house. It rang through the 
room, and at its sound both Radstock and his wife 
sprang to their feet and stared at one another* 


CHAPTER XVII 


Dillon had finished dinner, and with his mind full 
of what he intended to say to Marion, took his way 
towards Rosemary Villa. It was to be the ending 
of the farce, not only for her but also for Radstock, 
and the truth must be told to all who were con- 
cerned. He would have to talk well, and talk for 
his life, to Marion Keith. Whether Radstock lis- 
tened or believed mattered less than nothing, for it 
was always easily possible to prove his facts; only 
he wanted first to convince Marion without proof. 

The night was full of whispering sounds, once 
he had left the town, and full of wonder to the soul 
of a lover, so that Dillon reached the gate into the 
garden of Rosemary Villa in a beatific frame of mind, 
increased by the golden light of a late-rising moon. 

As he opened the gate he glanced upwards and 
breathed a deep breath of great contentment. It 
would be so good to be Quentin Dillon once more, 
and to have done with his namesake for ever; and 
just as he was thinking of how he should go straight 
up to the drawing-room where Marion Keith sat, 
avoiding the gambling-rooms until he went there to 
see Rutherford and carry out his promise to Swimer- 
ton, the revolver shot which had startled Radstock 
and his wife rang out, and clamoured for its passing 
second in the ears of Quentin Dillon. 

192 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


193 

He did not stop to think or search for any ex- 
planation of the sound, but ran up the steep path in 
the direction of where the shot came from, and 
as he reached the crest of the sharp hill, the doors 
into the veranda were flung open and Radstock came 
out, followed by his wife. 

“Who fired that shot?” Radstock asked wildly 
as Quentin joined them. 

Dillon made no answer, but ran onwards to the 
edge of the pond, lying under dark, heavy shadow, 
and then, both men halted involuntarily. 

On the surface of the water something white 
showed in the dimness, and Quentin stripped off his 
coat and plunged in. He had no time to think or 
consider, or to answer that awful question which was 
sounding through every fibre of his soul. It was a 
moment for action and nothing else. Radstock 
stooped and picked up something from the ground 
which caught the light, and looked at it, as his wife 
joined him. It was a small nickel-plated revolver 
fully loaded, with one chamber empty, and he shud- 
dered with sudden trembling when he turned to 
Mrs. Radstock, but neither of them spoke, and they 
strained forward watching Dillon, who pulled him- 
self up from the edge of the pond, dragging a heavy, 
inert mass on his arm. 

“Give me a hand here,” he shouted, and Radstock 
obeyed silently, bending to lift the drenched mass to 
firm ground, and as they laid the body there and 
looked at the upturned face, the same ghastly silence 
held them all. 

“This is the worst thing that could have hap- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


194 

pened,” Radstock said, his eyes on the face of Ruth- 
erford, who lay indifferent to them all, with a scar 
marked on his forehead. “The very worst. My 
God! It’s serious.” 

Quentin knelt beside Rutherford and felt his 
heart, but not even the faintest beating told that 
there was any life left in him, and he looked up 
again and nodded slightly. “He’s dead,” he said, 
rising from his knees. “It was suicide, I suppose.” 

Radstock handed him the revolver, and Dillon 
examined it. “It’s the end of our club,” he re- 
marked. “I wish to God I’d stopped the fool from 
playing. There will be hell over this, Dillon.” 

“I had intended to speak to him to-night,” Dillon 
said regretfully. “Swimerton told me that Sir Wal- 
ter was anxious — but who could have expected this ?” 

“Why couldn’t he have done it anywhere else?” 
Radstock said furiously. He had not the smallest 
shred of sympathy for the fate of Rutherford, and 
a madness of rage seized him to think of the conse- 
quences of an act which affected him so closely. “As 
it is, Rangoon will be too hot to hold us, and there 
will be an almighty row” — his mind travelled on- 
wards — “and then there’s the girl.” 

“Marion was to have given him his answer to- 
night,” Mrs. Radstock said, speaking for the first 
time. “She said at dinner that her answer was 
ready for him.” 

“Give me a hand,” Dillon said abruptly, “we 
can’t leave him here,” and with an inarticulate sound 
of anger, Radstock bent down and they carried 
Rutherford into the house. They brought him 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


195 

through the open doors of the gambling-room and 
laid him on the central table, covering him from 
sight with a cloth. Suffy had finished things up, 
and so far as he himself was concerned, the play was 
played out for good and all. His spirit was far 
away, and, detached from it, his body was terribly 
pathetic, as it still held some of his old irresolution 
and weakness. They closed the door and went into 
Radstock’s room at the further side of the passage. 

“That girl said she was going to give him his 
answer,” Radstock said, his nostrils dilated and his 
eyes straining frantically. “I don’t understand it. 
Wait a bit, Dillon, we must stop any of the fellows 
coming here to-night.” He ran to the door and 
shouted to the durwan, giving orders rapidly. “Nes- 
bit may have some suggestions, and I suppose the 
damned thing has got to be known, but I don’t see 
much use in staying on here.” 

“If you clear out, you may be suspected of mur- 
der,” Dillon said, as he closed the doors. “I’d not 
do that if I were you.” 

“You know it wasn’t,” Mrs. Radstock said brood- 
ingly. “As you ran up the garden you saw us come 
from the house, after the shot was fired.” 

“Certainly I know it.” Quentin looked round at 
them. “But you have both mentioned Miss Keith. 
I want you to understand that her name is not to 
be brought in, when questions are asked. Ruther- 
ford was in money difficulties. When his affairs 
are gone into that is sure to come out, and will be 
the explanation of his suicide.” 

Voices were heard outside the closed doors, and 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


196 

there seemed to be an altercation going on between 
several men and the durwan , and the watchers with- 
in became rigidly silent. It was as though some 
immediate menace threatened them, and then passed, 
as retreating footsteps echoed slowly and reluctantly 
away. 

“I will make my statement,” Radstock said, sit- 
ting down and propping his head on his hands; and 
he had evident difficulty in making any sound. 
Something fantastic had caught him into a snare, and 
dealt him destruction as completely as the bullet 
which had entered the brain of Suffy Rutherford, 
and he was like a man bound by fate. 

Dillon’s thoughts flew to Marion. She had ex- 
pected to meet Rutherford and was, so he had gath- 
ered vaguely, on the eve of being forced into an en- 
gagement with him. That she cared for him he did 
not for a moment believe, but, in any case, the trag- 
edy must be broken to her gently. 

Suffy’s act of self-destruction appeared to con- 
tradict the theory that Marion had promised, or 
was about to promise, herself to him, and even 
though Quentin threw the dead man a passing trib- 
ute of pity, he regarded his conduct as that of utter 
selfishness, sublimated, perhaps, by some ideal which 
none of them understood, but none the less the act 
of a coward. Had he shot himself in his own room 
it would have been ghastly enough, but to come and 
deliberately take his life outside the very window 
of the woman he professed to love, had something 
cheap in it, in the eyes of Quentin Dillon. One last 
wild bid for pity, made at the expense of a girl’s 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


197 

reputation, when already the small world who were 
aware of her, turned cold eyes in her direction. If 
Quentin knew anything of human nature, he knew 
that there would be numbers of men and women 
who would discount the story of Rutherford’s debts, 
and prefer to think that there was more behind it, 
and that his ultimate desperation arose through 
events connected with Marion Keith. Try as he 
might to force Radstock and his wife to keep her 
name clear, it would still be dragged into the mud, 
and a wild notion of carying her off himself, there 
and then, presented itself to him. 

“I think Miss Keith should be told,” he said 
quietly, for he had been listening, in fear of hearing 
her step outside the room. The alarm had spread 
to the servants’ quarters, and they were buzzing like 
a hive of agitated bees in the darkness outside. At 
any moment Marion might hear from the ayah that 
a terrible event had taken place in the garden, and he 
longed to spare her what he could of the first shock. 

“You are right,” Mrs. Radstock said, recalling 
herself from her thoughts, “I will go and tell her.” 

She left the room, and Quentin sat down opposite 
to Radstock. “The best thing to do is to tele- 
phone to Swimerton,” he said; “he is sure to be back 
at his house by this. As he knows Rutherford’s 
father, the news can be broken by hirr..” 

“Have you ever seen Rutherford’s father?” Rad- 
stock asked, looking up. “No? Well, he’s a Scots- 
man with the temper of a fiend, and he thinks no 
end of his family and his name. What do you sup- 
pose he’ll have to say over this?” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


198 

“Anything he may have to say won’t alter facts, 
unfortunately,” Dillon replied. “I suppose he knew 
what sort of a man his son was.” 

“If he did, he’d not admit it. He’d rather die 
than swallow his pride.” Radstock lowered his 
voice to a whisper. “Nesbit had it that Rutherford 
had been up to something shady. Taken a bribe 
over the Hansara case. I didn’t believe it, but Nes- 
bit has his own way of getting to know things, and 
he swears to it. Now Rutherford has cleared out 
this way,” he glanced in the direction of the other 
room, “the whole thing may come out. Oh, my 
God,” he covered his face again. 

“Then you think this . . .” Dillon broke off. 
“You imagine that the man who bribed him may 
have threatened him with exposure?” 

“I’m pretty sure of it. His father will have tq 
know, unless the fool destroyed his papers.” 

Dillon sat very still. He recalled Suffy’s white 
face and nervous manner for weeks past — the man- 
ner of a man over whose head there hangs a sus- 
pended menace. Poor devil, how he must have suf- 
fered, pursued by invisible foes and driven by some 
unseen taskmaster; coming there, night after night, 
in the hope of his luck favouring him sufficiently to 
make him clear, and dreaming madly of Marion 
Keith. 

That night, things must have gone too far, but 
what the circumstance was which forced him over 
the precipice and into the abyss no one would ever 
know. 

“Unless he has destroyed his papers, the bribery 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 199 

business will come out,” Radstock said again, “and 
to cover that, Walter Rutherford will move heaven 
and hell. It means that he will break me, and Nes- 
bit isn’t going to get out either. As for you — you 
don’t count,” he glared at Dillon. “Rutherford gave 
a rocky judgment before he left Hansara, and it got 
talked of by the natives in the place. An appeal 
was filed last week and he was to be recalled to his 
district.” 

“And in the face of that you were prepared to 
try and force Miss Keith into a marriage with him? 
Knowing that he stood to be openly dishonoured?” 

“I didn’t know it,” Radstock retorted. “I knew 
that Walter Rutherford would never let it come to 
that, and being a rich man, would pay his son’s 
debts.” 

“Did Mrs. Radstock know?” 

“I don’t see why I should be cross-questioned,” 
Radstock said with a fresh outburst of anger, “but 
as you ask, she did not know. It was between Nes- 
bit and me, and he had his information from Harim 
Das, a Bunya in the native bazaar.” 

Dillon was just about to speak again when the 
door was opened and Mrs. Radstock stood looking 
at them, her face grey and colourless, as she drew 
deep panting breaths. “Marion is not there,” she 
said. “I have searched the whole house and she 
has gone.” 

“Let her go,” her husband replied sullenly, and 
Quentin sprang to his feet. 

“Gone?” he said. “But where could she have 


200 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

gone to? At this hour, and with no friends in 
Rangoon?” 

“I can’t tell, I only know that she has gone,” 
Mrs. Radstock said, speaking more quietly. “I 
looked in her room and found that she had taken 
some of her things with her, so she must have 
thought it out. The ayah knows nothing, and 
there is no word of anything anywhere.” She 
looked at Dillon with glazed, set eyes. “How do 
you explain it?” 

His glance travelled from Radstock to his wife in 
utter mystification, and then Mrs. Radstock caught 
him by the arm. “Don’t lie to me about this,” she 
said imploringly. “You have induced her to go 
away to you; I feel that you have. If it had not 
been for what Rutherford has done it could not 
have been known of in time, but you can’t pretend 
now. Give her back to me, for at least I could shel- 
ter her from a much worse thing than her marriage 
with Yhat dead man could have been.” 

Dillon put his hands over hers. “On my honour, 
I know nothing,” he said. “I swear it,” and as he 
spoke she released him dumbly. 

“Then what does it mean?” she asked in a voice 
which was hardly audible; and with her w T ords a 
new horror seemed to creep into the room. “She 
was to have seen Rutherford to-night, and she told 
us that she had her answer ready.” 

Radstock got up and leaned over the table. “We 
must do something about this,” he said, and then he 
sat down limply again. 

“But what you suggest is beyond reason,” Dillon 


201 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

said quickly. “The two things have nothing what- 
ever to say to one another. It is frightfully urgent 
to find Miss Keith.” 

A knock echoed into the room and Dillon turned 
and stood by the outer door. “It’s Nesbit,” he 
said, speaking over his shoulder. 

“Then let him in, man,” Radstock said roughly. 
“Let him in; what are you waiting for?” 

Opening the door, Quentin admitted Nesbit, who 
pushed in, asking angrily what they were all doing, 
and what had happened. He stood there looking 
from one to the other of the tense, strained faces. 

“Rutherford’s shot himself in the garden. He’s 
dead,” Radstock said, looking furtively at his col- 
league to see the result of his announcement. “He 
fired on the edge of the pond and fell in. Dillon 
got him out stone dead.” 

Nesbit pulled himself up and whistled. Nobody 
stirred and the silence was immense and awful. 

“That’s dished us,” he remarked, helpless for the 
moment; “dished us.” 

Dillon walked to the door. “I shall go and see 
Swimerton,” he said; “and there is the question of 
Miss Keith; she must be found to-night.” 

“Miss Keith?” Nesbit asked roughly. “What’s 
she got to do with it?” 

“Nothing; but she has left the house.” 

Nesbit’s eyes lighted unpleasantly. “Looks 
rather peculiar,” he said. “I suppose you are sure 
that Rutherford shot himself?” 

It would have been far easier to stay and catch 
Nesbit by the throat and punish him for the sug- 


202 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


gestion in his words, but Quentin had other thoughts 
which conquered his rage. Marion was out in the 
darkness alone, and had been driven there by some 
cruel provocation of circumstances. She might even 
have gone to seek his help in her despair, turning 
to him at the last. If he were to wait and give 
Nesbit the answer he had asked for it would only 
serve to pile up the increasing intricacy of the whole 
desperate situation, and without any reply he went 
out of the room, closing the door behind him. He 
was drenched to the skin, and still in his shirt sleeves, 
but appearances hardly mattered in such a moment. 
Before anything else, he must get back to the hotel 
to find whether Marion had come there to ask his 
help, and failing that — failing that, where was he 
to begin in his search for her? 

He could not apply to Hall, the head of the police, 
without telling him that Marion Keith had disap- 
peared at the very time when Rutherford fired the 
fatal shot, and to combine the two events must inev- 
itably link her name with the tragedy. He ran down 
the road, bare headed, and caring nothing what 
anyone thought should they see him, and his appear- 
ance in the hall where a number of people were sit- 
ting, drinking coffee and enjoying the cooler hours 
of the night, was startling enough to excite no little 
comment. But there had been no inquiry for him, 
and no one had asked for him during his absence. 

With a heart as heavy as lead, Quentin went to 
the telephone and rang up Swimerton. He hung 
up the receiver and sat down to wait for Swimer- 
ton’s arrival at the hotel, and as he thought again of 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


203 


the events of the evening, he decided that nothing 
whatever must be said of the disappearance of Mar- 
ion Keith. He would find her, he swore it faithfully 
to himself, and the voice of mad slander must be 
stifled. Radstock had nothing to gain by speaking; 
Mrs. Radstock would protect her niece, and Nesbit 
— if it got to Dillon’s ears that Nesbit had talked, 
he had better look out for himself. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The news of Rutherford’s suicide ran like fire 
through stubble, and everywhere people discussed 
it. He had been so well known and universally pop- 
ular, and Rangoon talked of nothing else. Down in 
the native quarter it was spoken of, and strangers 
in the city, who had never seen Suffy in the flesh, 
were wildly interested in the tragedy of his final 
quitting of the world. In the offices and the bars 
the circumstances were discussed freely, and the 
Rutherfords were for the first time in their history 
regarded with universal sympathy. 

Everyone knew it was suicide, but for family 
reasons the verdict was brought in that Rutherford 
had injured himself with a revolver he carried, and 
had been drowned accidentally. His funeral was 
a huge function, attended by His Excellency, and 
everyone mourned him, forgetting his futile sins and 
remembering only his cheery good fellowship. 

That was the surface of the situation. The va- 
rious hidden issues went far deeper, though not 
known to the whole world of wagging tongues. 
People had heard of Rosemary Villa, and that Ruth- 
erford’s “accident” had happened in the garden 
there was not a point to be overlooked. Radstock 
had an evil reputation; no one knew his wife, except 
such as Mrs. Synd, who now repudiated her old 

204 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 205 

friendship volubly at the races and in the Gym- 
khana Club; and there was a niece, who had also 
been seen and commented upon, but who had not 
been heard of since. That was the first stage of the 
affair. 

Later, it became known that Rosemary Villa was 
“to let.” Boards with a notice to that effect stood 
at the entrance gate, and whispers grew louder, say- 
ing that Radstock had been, justly, given a hint to 
leave Rangoon. 

Nesbit, who had been a rather popular figure in 
his official capacity, was regarded as a sportsman in 
a vague, indefinite way. He had been often at the 
so-called club and had gambled there, but nothing 
more came to light so far as he was concerned; and 
Dillon, who remained on at the Mandalay Hotel, 
was said to have lost considerably through playing 
at Rosemary Villa. 

Of the Hansara case nothing whatever was said, 
and it was some weeks after the funeral of Ruther- 
ford that another story became talked of in lowered 
voices. Where it began, or who started it, was not 
apparent, but it had all the makings of a scandal, 
which gathered momentum as it went from mouth 
to mouth. 

Miss Keith, the niece, was, after all, in the pic- 
ture. It became rumoured that her disappearance 
had coincided with Rutherford’s death, and the 
more hardy of the talkers hinted quite openly that, 
rather than accident, the tragedy had possibly been 
murder. Mrs. Radstock’s ayah had gone into serv- 
ice with Mrs. Augustine, the wife of a rich Eura- 


20 6 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


sian, who talked to her as a friend, and thereby dis- 
covered that Marion had fled from Rosemary Villa 
the night of Rutherford’s death. The Miss Sahib 
had been the object of Rutherford’s attentions, and 
was in the habit of sitting in her room and crying, 
and it was common talk in the servant’s quarters that 
they were to be married. The ayah had seen Marion 
go very quietly out of the house a few minutes before 
the shot had been fired. This was the basis of the 
story. The ayah was prepared to say that the Miss 
Sahib did not love Rutherford Sahib, and since the 
hour when she left the house she had disappeared 
completely. 

At this fresh fuel the flames leaped again, and 
once more the subject was discussed with added 
adornments. 

No official search had ever been made for the 
girl, and the Radstocks had vanished also. The 
house on the ridge was empty, and people went 
there to look at it, filled with curiosity to see what 
sort of place it really was. It was felt that Marion 
had joined her relations, and should be traced and 
handed over to the law, but, beyond plastering her 
name with mud, there was on one who had sufficient 
evidence against her to prove anything. 

The case against her hardened and became an 
accepted theory. If she were innocent, why had 
she hidden herself away? Someone had said that 
her aunt and uncle disclaimed all knowledge of her, 
saying that she had gone to friends, and when one 
or two men asked Nesbit if he could add anything 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


207 

to the subject, he said he preferred to keep a shut 
mouth. 

His manner of keeping his mouth shut was quite 
sufficiently damning to increase the feeling abroad 
against Marion, and the proprietor of the Palm 
Hotel was bitter of tongue when he mentioned Rose- 
mary Villa, and even more so when he spoke of 
Quentin Dillon. 

So far as Dillon was concerned, it did not trouble 
him to find that he was cold-shouldered, and that 
men who had been friendly veered away from his 
neighbourhood when they met. He knew what was 
being said, and wore himself out in angry denials of 
the atrocious story spread about a girl who was not 
there to defend herself, and who had no one to de- 
fend her. He would have left Rangoon and shaken 
its red dust off his feet for ever, had it not been that 
one thing alone held him there. 

He could not believe that Marion had left Burma. 
None of the passages taken in the shipping books 
were in her name, and in any case he believed her 
to be without money to get a passage home. 

To raise a hue-and-cry would only be to increase 
the scandal which was talked incessantly, and the 
sense of failure lay heavy on his soul. There was 
no comfort anywhere, and his fears for Marion 
arose in him like an armed band as he waited through 
the days and weeks. He grew to loathe Rangoon 
and hate the gaudy show of the streets, and the isola- 
tion which surrounded him since he had become in 
some mysterious way suspect, affected him far more 
than he would have admitted. Swimerton alone 


208 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


remained his friend, and it was to Swimerton that he 
first told the whole story. 

“A practical joke that turned out anything but 
funny,” Dillon said, as he sat in Swimerton’s garden, 
a host of brown-winged moths flying in the brief 
green dusk. “God, if I’d only known in time !” 

“We’ve most of us said that,” Swimerton com- 
mented, “but, with this talk going on, you simply 
can’t raise any question with the police. Lady 
Rutherford is like a savage tigress, and Walter feels 
that his son was duped, and that quite possibly Miss 
Keith had a hand in it. Lady Rutherford knows 
nothing of the Hansara case, or the ugly charges 
which would certainly have been made if Suffy had 
lived, and her nerves are raw.” 

“Have you heard anything of Radstock and his 
wife?” Dillon asked disconsolately. “I have won- 
dered sometimes if Miss Keith ever left Rangoon. 
She might have gone back to Rosemary Villa to 
look for them there, and found it empty.” 

“I heard that they had gone to Calcutta,” Swimer- 
ton said, clasping his hands behind his head. “She 
was fearfully broken; they can’t show their faces 
here again.” 

Quentin folded his arms and sighed. He had 
lost a great deal of his energy, and the never-ceasing 
trouble of his mind had told upon him. 

“God knows what Marion Keith is doing,” he 
said. “God knows where she is. I can’t forget that 
they drove her out.” 

“Go back to England,” Swimerton said, looking at 
his guest. “All this is doing you no good.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


209 

Dillon got up and began to pace the garden path, 
his friend joining him. “It’s nearly two months 
since it all happened,” he said restlessly, “but how 
can I leave? She was so utterly friendless. There 
isn’t a living soul in the place she could have gone 
to then, and now, if she were to come back, how do 
you think they would all treat her?” 

“Badly, I’m afraid,” Swimerton replied; “there’s 
not much mercy about these times; we seem to have 
a queer way of bludgeoning women, without wait- 
ing to hear if there is any other side of the story.” 

‘‘Then it comes to this, that if she ever does re- 
turn — if she is still alive, I am the only one left.” 
He turned impetuously. “I walk up to that cursed 
house night after night, just in the hope that I may 
find her. I’ve bribed the durwan to keep her there 
if she comes, and let me know, but she never does 
come. I’ve searched every by-street in this vile city, 
looking for her, and never found a single trace of 
her, and every day I begin with some faint hope and 
end utterly hopeless.” 

“I don’t know what to say to help you.” 

“Dillon pulled himself together and laughed. “I’m 
bad company to-night,” he said apologetically, “but 
it’s something to unburden one’s mind. I’m grate- 
ful.” 

They parted at the gate, and Dillon took his way 
up the familiar road and into the garden of Rose- 
mary Villa, and as he went he saw a face which was 
dimly familiar to him. It was the face of a gaunt, 
ascetic-looking clergyman, who gave him a square 
and uncompromising stare of dislike. 


210 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


As Quentin went onwards he recalled the name of 
the man. It was the American Baptist missionary 
who had travelled out with them on the Thebaw’s 
Queen, and he turned irresolutely, thinking that he 
might speak to him of Marion Keith. But the feel- 
ing passed, and he went onwards. Mr. Grant had 
never been particularly friendly, and his look had 
given Dillon to understand that any revival of their 
acquaintance would not be acceptable. No doubt he 
had heard the common talk as he might easily have 
done anywhere in Rangoon, and in any case it hardly 
mattered. 

Grant had known and liked Marion, and for that 
reason it would have been a small blessing to have 
exchanged a few words. 

He walked into the garden and stood by the dark, 
ill-fated pond, where weeds and flowers covered the 
water like a garment, and the evening breeze rippled 
the stagnant surface. Many people would not come 
there at all now, as the place had a bad name and 
was said to be haunted. Haunted for Quentin Dillon 
it certainly was, and his memories rushed upon him 
with the cruel force of a time which has gone by and 
may never return any more. 

The house stood gaunt and vacant, with closed 
doors and windows thick in dust. The owner would 
find it difficult to let the place, and its former ram- 
shackle appearance had intensified, making it a kind 
of outcast among the sparse company of dwellings 
along the rise. Melancholy and full of windy deso- 
lation, it watched the garden, all its human use reft 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 21 1 

away from it, and left to stand there soulless and 
deserted. 

In the dark of the early night Quentin stood out- 
side, and the sorrow of the derelict house was in 
accord with the sorrow of his own heart. There was 
a unity between them and the poor place which 
caught at his own sympathy. Out of his personal 
experience he too had learnt that the malignancy of 
the forces banded against him were doubled by un- 
certainty and the confusion which resulted in his own 
mind. He was like a man who is blindfolded, just 
at the moment when he most urgently needs his sight. 

The “accident” had happened, and Suffy Ruther* 
ford broke up everything, leaving darkness behind 
him which remained impenetrable. It was still un- 
known what had really happened, and it would re- 
main unknown. Two irrefutable facts only stood out 
distinct. One, that Suffy was a dead man, and the 
other that Marion Keith was nowhere to be found. 

The durwan was playing on a wistful little flute 
to keep evil spirits at bay, for he was in a constant 
state of fear, and the notes tripped out in melancholy 
cadence with no semblance of a tune, repeating and 
reiterating the sound in the lonely garden, and at 
Dillon’s approach he shuffled along the veranda, 
greeting him with a low salaam and saying in a de- 
jected voice the words he always used, “Another 
night by Allah’s will.” 

“Has anyone been here?” Quentin asked sharply. 

“A padre sahib, Huzoor, but he say nothing. He 
only look about and go away again.” 

So Grant had been sufficiently interested to come 


212 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


and look at the house. Dillon shrugged his shoul- 
ders. Even a spiritually-minded man, it appeared, 
was capable of feeling the vulgar curiosity of the 
crowd, and coming to see the place where a fellow- 
creature had killed himself. 

There was nothing more to say, and Dillon went 
away again, eating his meal in the solitude of his 
sitting-room, which he now preferred to the large 
dining-room of the Mandalay Hotel. 

Another night had to be got through, and he 
slept badly, awakening soon after dawn, and look- 
ing out with tired eyes at the light which was 
strengthening in the east; and as he looked he re- 
peated the durwan’s words hopelessly — “Another 
day, by Allah’s will.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


When Marion Keith’s nerves got away with her, 
she did not stop to think. Had she done so she 
would have written a letter telling her aunt that 
she was going to friends; but, in the overstrung state 
to which she had come, she feared to take the small- 
est risk of detection, promising herself that she 
would write and reassure Mrs. Radstock directly 
she arrived at Myittha. 

When she left the dining-room she went to her 
own room and put on her hat, tying it with a thick 
motor veil, and carrying the necessaries she required 
in a small parcel. This done, she opened her door 
softly and peered out. Everything was intensely 
still, and the low moonlight just caught the upper 
branches of the trees, and painted long shadows 
down the flagged veranda. Slipping through the 
door, she ran by a straggling path which was hidden 
by a dense azalea hedge, and came to the gate un- 
observed; and just as she reached it Dillon came up 
the road, and she drew back into the shelter of the 
trees. 

All her love for him swept upwards in her heart, 
and she clung to a tree for support, watching him 
between the leaves as he stood for a moment look- 
ing at the sky overhead. Of all men on earth he 
was the one whom she must learn to forget, and yet 
213 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


214 

at that moment she hesitated and a wild longing to 
call him tore her heart with fearful anguish. He 
meant everything to her, and more than anything 
else it was he who was responsible for her flight. 
She pressed her hands over her mouth and stifled 
back her cry. Not in this way had the women of 
her household fought their battles, and once again 
she told herself that he was dishonourable and false. 
Beside him, Rutherford was clean and upright, and 
at whatever cost she swore to drive Quentin out 
of his place in her heart. Marion had a fundamen- 
tal belief in the principle of cutting off the right hand 
should it offend her, and her courage returned. 
Dillon had a wife already, a poor creature whom he 
had cast aside, and faithfulness was unknown to him. 
It was hard to believe, but things which are hard to 
believe are sometimes true. She told herself this as 
she bit into her own soft flesh to ease the mental 
torture by some purely physical pain, and then the 
sound of a shot rang out with its startling message 
into the night. 

She saw Dillon run forward, and came from be- 
hind the shelter where she stood to watch him go. 
Who could have fired the shot she could not think, 
but her purpose did not waver. She had been too 
close to capitulation even as she watched him to risk 
ever seeing him again, and her mind was made up. 
The only thing for it was flight, and the weakness of 
her own heart warned her that she might betray her- 
self. Voices were calling in the garden, and lights 
appeared from the servants’ quarter as though some- 
one was running, carrying a hurricane lamp, and, 


A FOOL’S ERRAND * 


215 

with a sudden return of fear, Marion went through 
the gate and sped down the road. 

She knew where the office of the Flotilla Com- 
pany was situated in Wharf Street, and hailing a 
third-class ticca gharry she drove to the place and 
took her passage from a young Eurasian clerk, 
giving her name as Miss Grant. It was all quite 
easily done, and no one took any special notice of 
her as went on board, just before the Maymyo got 
up sufficient steam to depart along the wonderful 
waterway leading into the mysterious land ahead of 
her. 

The Maymyo was a very small and old-fashioned 
river-boat, incapable of speed, and the captain in- 
formed her that it would be some days before they 
arrived at Myittha. He was a taciturn young man 
who regarded her with very little interest, and there 
were no other passengers on board except a com- 
mercial traveller with a cockney accent, and a young 
subaltern, who had brought a gramophone with him 
with which he beguiled the time. 

Her cabin was small and desperately hot, and 
even when the Maymyo moved off the mosquitoes 
hummed furiously and drove her out on to the deck. 
There were cockroaches huge in size in the cabin, 
and Marion summoned up sufficient courage to ask 
the captain if she might sleep on deck. 

“So that you clear out by six, I have no objec- 
tion,” he said, looking up from his writing-table 
which stood in the space in the centre of the deck; 
and on a large card set at his elbow, Marion read 
the words, “Don’t worry the Boss.” 


21 6 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


All night she lay in the comparative coolness, her 
mind active and wakeful. She went back to the 
garden at Rosemary Villa and watched Dillon once 
more, with the same rage of loss and sorrow. It 
would take time to think of him without pain, and 
her heart ached desperately. To distract her 
thoughts from him, she tried to guess what the shot 
fired in the darkness might possibly mean, and, try 
as she would, she could find no reasonable answer. 
Yet it haunted her, with its persistent echo, and 
grew in menace as she thought of it, echoing back 
to her with the mysterious relentlessness of remem- 
bered sound. 

It was comforting to know that she was now com- 
pletely cut off from everything, and that the Maymyo 
was slowly dividing her from all which belonged to 
the life of yesterday, and already Rangoon lay out 
of sight behind them, lost in the river fog and blotted 
out in the darkness of the night. Her aunt and 
uncle had only dseired to rid themselves of her and 
to force her into any marriage, however much she 
hated the idea, and she had taken the law into her 
own hands, and left them free of further obligation. 

By daybreak they were well up the first miles of 
the Irrawaddy, and Marion looked out at the jungle 
which crowded close to the brown water’s edge. Far 
away the Shan hills gleaming in rainbow colours, and 
she watched the slow pictures pass as she lay in a 
deck-chair under the awning, young Mr. Jesson 
making music for her with his gramophone. It was 
a queer, dream-like experience, lived between the 
whisper of the forest and the whisper of flowing 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


217 

water, the banks inhabited only by strange-looking 
creatures who came to look at them as they plodded 
along, crowding down from their forlorn, nest-like 
houses which afford only the barest shelter, and peer- 
ing wild-eyed at the passing Flotilla boat. 

“Queer people. Hardly human,” the captain re- 
marked. 

It was a relief to be away from Rangoon. Marion 
had not guessed how much the strain had told upon 
her until she left it behind and had time to rest her 
soul in quiet. Her gala life, with so little real amuse- 
ment or happiness in it; the constant sensation of be- 
ing spied upon, and the dread of Nesbit, were all 
lifted for the moment, and she could breathe again. 
Rutherford, with his persistence and his determina- 
tion to use all the influence he could to prevail over 
her, was safely out of her path, and she need not 
fear to meet him at every turn. And last of all, the 
man she loved and must renounce was no longer 
there, pleading his unspoken cause. It was restful, 
and rest was what she most needed. 

The river had its hours of splendid majesty, and 
was in full flood, so that sometimes it lay around 
them like a vast lake, and the blue hills changed their 
colour and made a great wall between her and the 
fever of what had been. 

At the end of the dream she awoke and found that 
they had arrived at Myittha, where she was to leave 
the Maymyo and begin the process of explanation, 
which is one of the hardest parts of friendship, 
again. She would have to tell Mrs. Grant some- 
thing, or hurt her kindly heart, and with a fresh 


2l8 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


sense of weariness she looked at the Maymyo as 
once more it plodded onwards, leaving her standing 
on the small wharf which jutted out under a group 
of palm trees, close to a white plaster shrine. 

She had arrived, and she was not expected. Cer- 
tainly explanations would be necessary. 

* * * * * 

The padre’s bungalow stood on a high point which 
commanded a view of the river and the low circle 
of mountains beyond. It was kept in fairly good 
order, but for the most part Myittha was a place 
which was dying slowly. Once it had been an out- 
post of great strategical importance, and forgotten 
wars had left their mark. Roofless bungalows of 
yellow plaster, stained with long scrawls of green, 
fell into the last stages of decay, deserted monu- 
ments of vanished life. Marion came to know the 
feeling of the place well, though at first the details 
escaped her. The rails were down on the grass- 
grown racecourse ; the station club smelt of mortality 
with its empty ball-room; the alien race who had 
claimed the place had departed, leaving only 
shadows behind them. 

Her first impression was one of wonder at the 
park-like beauty of the billowy green rise and fall 
of the landscape, and the tender colour which floated 
over the hills and trees, and then she turned her 
mind to the more urgent question of finding her way 
to the Grants’ house. A clerk, who seemed half 
asleep, roused himself and gave her directions and, 
taking her way under the dense shadow of tower- 
ing trees, she passed the huge station church, won- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 219 

dering at its size, and followed the road which was 
bordered in high waving grass, round a series of 
curves, until she paused outside a neatly-painted gate. 
A little tin-roofed building stood near the bungalow, 
and was the church of the American Baptist Mis- 
sion. Mrs. Grant had been able to conquer the 
ghosts of Myittha; that was the first thought which 
came to Marion’s mind. 

Chicken, different in feather and contour from the 
scraggy moorghis she had seen everywhere else, 
strutted well fed and aristocratic behind high wires, 
and the garden was laid out in a conventional design, 
clipped and trim. A swing hung from one of the 
trees, and a perambulator with a white awning stood 
in the veranda, and in the beautiful, awful wilder- 
ness undulating away for hundreds of miles on either 
side, the wife of the American Baptist missionary 
had introduced a steady suggestion of home and 
peace. 

Marion opened the gate and went in, and a 
moment later Mrs. Grant was greeting her with a 
flow of cheerful welcome. She was too pleased to see 
her guest to be curious as to the reason why she had 
come, and led her into a small room gay with bright 
chintz, talking incessantly and telling her facts con- 
nected with the chicken and the children, who both 
played a large part in her life. 

“Jeremy will be delighted to see you,” she said, 
kissing Marion again. “It’s such an adventure to 
have someone to stay. Myittha is a nice little place, 
but very lonely. There is no one here except the 
commissioner and his wife. She is stuck-up, and we 


220 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


don’t get on any too well, and he, poor man, drinks. 
That’s why he’s here. The Church of England 
padre isn’t our sort, and the doctor’s wife is very 
fast. There’s Mr. Franks, of the Bombay Burma, 
who comes now and then, and there are the military, 
only Jeremy doesn’t much like military men.” She 
was making up Marion’s bed as she talked. U I hope 
you’ll not find it very quiet after Rangoon, Marion, 
as I suppose you were very gay down there. I only 
got back two days ago. Caught the Pegu , one of 
the new boats which does the trip in half the time. 
You made up your mind in a hurry, at the last 
minute, I suppose?” 

Marion sat down on her bed and took Mrs. 
Grant’s hands in hers. She was very tired, and as 
she raised her beautiful eyes to her friend’s face, 
Mrs. Grant looked slightly distressed. 

“Not anything wrong, I hope?” she asked, and 
appeared to be about to say something further, but 
stopped herself short. Jeremy was in the habit 
of impressing upon her constantly that the tongue is 
a fire. Being a kindly gossip, she had heard a great 
deal about the Radstocks from time to time, and 
was much interested in all news of her neighbours. 

“I have left my uncle and aunt,” Marion said, 
speaking with an effort. “It was impossible for me 
to stay there any longer, Esme. I can hardly tell 
you it all just now, but they do not know where I 
am.” 

Mrs. Grant squared her broad shoulders. She 
liked the idea of sheltering a fugitive, and promised 
herself that the Radstocks might search Myittha 


221 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

in vain for their niece. “You are safe here,” she re- 
plied. “Jeremy thinks very badly of your uncle — I 
may as well say so much to you. He has said more 
than once that he wished you were anywhere else. 
Not at all the right place for a young girl. I heard 
that they played cards for money.” 

“I am afraid that they did,” Marion agreed, “but 
it wasn’t that.” She looked up again, her eyes full 
of tears. “I must not blame them; it was for an- 
other reason that I came away.” 

“There, there; don’t speak of it if it upsets you,” 
Mrs. Grant said kindly. “I’ll tell the bhisti to get 
your bath.” She looked at the small parcel which 
held all Marion’s possessions, “and if you want any- 
thing I’ll lend it to you. Not that my clothes will 
fit — I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We can buy some 
material in the bazaar and I’ll run you up something 
with my machine in a few hours.” 

She bustled off, full of hospitable intention, and 
Marion took off her hat and laid it on the bed. What 
a different world Esme Grant had constructed 
around her! A world where the handle of a sew- 
ing machine made busy, whirring sounds, and where 
children were taught to behave themselves admir- 
ably, and chickens laid English eggs. She seemed 
to have specialised in economy and comfort, and to 
her the voice of Jeremy Grant was nearly as omnipo- 
tent as the voice of God. It all contrasted fiercely 
with the atmosphere of Rosemary Villa, and to 
Marion it offered the gift of calm. 

She felt less tired when she had washed and 
dressed and came into the living-room, where Mr. 


222 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


Grant welcomed her gravely, and she sat quietly in 
a corner while he read prayers. 

The American Baptist missionary was a man who 
knew no doubt or compromise. Right was right and 
wrong was wrong in his eyes, and he regarded Ran- 
goon as a kind of Babylon of the East. Marion had 
come to them from an accursed city, and he was pre- 
pared to protect her and give her shelter, as though 
she had fled from the plague. He was implacably 
earnest and entirely sincere, and mystical half-lights 
were not known to him. 

A little later in the day he found opportunity to 
speak to Marion Keith, and he told her that his wife 
had hinted at some trouble behind her sudden arrival 
in their house. 

“I am glad to have you here,” he said kindly. 
“Your uncle’s house was not a suitable place for you, 
and you must make your home with us, without 
thinking of return.” 

She thanked him, her eyes on the neat garden 
lying beyond the open veranda, and her heart smote 
her. How could she live their life and think their 
thoughts, when all her soul cried out for a man 
whom Jeremy Grant would regard as a tool of 
Satan? 

“If I may stay here for a little,” she said slowly, 
“it will be a great help to me, but I want to go 
back to England.” 

“Stay here as long as you are willing to do so,” 
he said in his formal way. “It is a great pleasure 
to us both to have you. If you wish your visit kept 
secret I will assist you, or if you would like me to 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


223 

write to your relatives, I will inform them of your 
arrival with friends.” 

“Please do nothing, just yet,” she said with a 
sudden rush of emotion. Overloaded as she was, 
Marion could not face the idea of fresh conflict. 

“As you wish,” he replied, leaving her to walk 
into the sunlight towards the mission school. 


CHAPTER XX 


News travels very slowly to outposts up the Irra- 
waddy, and it was ten days after Marion’s arrival 
that the paper informed Mr. Grant of Rutherford’s 
suicide in the garden of Rosemary Villa. 

Usually he did not confer with his wife, as he 
made up his own mind on all subjects, but on this 
occasion he sought her with a troubled face, carrying 
the paper in his hand. 

“I think,” he said, “this tragedy explains the 
reason why Miss Keith left so suddenly to come to 
us.” 

Mrs. Grant read the announcement with wide, 
startled eyes. “She would have told me, Jeremy,” 
she said. “I am sure of that. I don’t believe she 
had any idea. Of course she’s not one to talk, but 
now and then she has spoken of Mr. Rutherford, 
and I am certain she does not know that he . . .” 
She waved her hands, unable to speak the words. 

“I did not blame her for her silence,” Jeremy said 
reprovingly. “It is a dreadful subject to speak of. 
If you believe that she does not know, she should be 
told, and you had better tell her.” He paced the 
room, his hands locked behind his lean back. 

Mrs. Grant wiped her eyes furtively. “Oh, dear 
me,” she said sorrowfully, “who would have thought 
it?” 


224 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 225 

With the insight of a born sentimentalist, Esme 
Grant had discerned that Marion’s unhappiness had 
deep roots, and concluded that it arose from some 
reason other than trouble with her aunt and uncle. 
The girl had done her best to fit in with their quiet 
life, and had tried to take an interest in the interests 
of their days, but Mrs. Grant was not deceived. 
The question of letting Mrs. Radstock know where 
she was had been allowed to lapse before her evi- 
dent fear of being traced and taken away again, and 
something deeper than a mere family falling-out lay 
behind her silence. Out of genial consideration for 
her guest, Mrs. Grant had never pressed the ques- 
tion, and as she went in search of Marion, she felt 
her heart beat with unusual rapidity. The secret, 
whatever it was, must be disclosed at last, in face of 
the fact that Marion had left Rosemary Villa the 
night of Rutherford’s death. 

Marion was sitting in the shade of a great teak 
tree, looking listlessly out towards the hills, where 
the lace-like spires of numbers of pagodas reflected 
back the sunlight. Myittha, lying in the faint purple 
of descending evening, looked like the land of Beu- 
lah, and over her head the crows cawed their harsh 
philosophy, telling her, or so it seemed, that the wise 
man numbered his days and applied his mind to such 
sensible arithmetic, and that life is a graveyard of 
buried hopes and dead ideals. The mournfulness of 
the place oppressed her, and the brisk cheerfulness 
of Mrs. Grant was an eternal reproach to her own 
enduring sadness. But then, Mrs. Grant had every- 
thing she wanted, her wants being small, and Marion 


226 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


was desolate. She looked up as her friend came 
towards her, and read disaster in her eyes. 

What had taken place, she wondered? Had her 
aunt discovered where she was and come to find 
her? A few hours ago she had heard the hoot of 
an arriving river steamer, and it was quite possible 
that anything might have happened. Holding her- 
self very still, she waited until Esme Grant joined 
her. 

“My dear,” she said, sitting down beside her, 
“can you bear some terrible news?” 

“I can bear anything, if you will tell me,” Marion 
said, taking a deep breath. “Please go on.” 

“Young Rutherford is dead.” Mrs. Grant 
plunged into her story, not without a thrill of enjoy- 
ment, for she seldom had a chance of being so com- 
pletely in the centre of a situation. “The very night 
you left — it must have been, for the details coincide 
exactly — he committed suicide in the garden at Rose- 
mary Villa.” 

Marion turned a white face to her. “Then that 
was the shot I heard,” she said, “and Quentin Dillon 
must have found him.” She bent forward and 
shaded her eyes with her hands. “Poor Suffy — oh, 
poor Suffy.” 

“It was a dreadfully wicked thing to do,” Mrs. 
Grant said, shaking her head. “Certainly I’m sorry 
for him, but to do such a thing!” 

For a second Marion’s thoughts carried her no 
further than the shock of the information, and then 
her mind became active again. If Suffy had shot 
himself there would be an inquiry, and things go 


227 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 

badly with Radstock and his wife, and possibly even 
worse with Dillon. His record, and the fact that 
he had been convicted and done his sentence in Eng- 
land, would have to come out. In her ignorance 
of facts she felt some of this, and she grasped Mrs. 
Grant’s arm tightly. “Esme, I am terrified,” she 
said quickly. “I have never told you, because it 
wasn’t easy to speak of it, but I cared a great deal 
— do still care — for Quentin Dillon.” 

“But what has that got to do with it?” Mrs. 
Grant asked in amazement. “I’m afraid that he 
isn’t a very nice man, Marion dearest. Jeremy 
didn’t approve of him on the voyage, I know, and 
we saw then that he intended to make you remark- 
able.” 

“I must speak of him,” Marion said frantically. 
“Oh, I know he isn’t straight, but you see, as Suffy 
shot himself in this way, it will drag my uncle and 
aunt into question. The club where men gambled 
will be shut down, and Quentin was a kind of part- 
ner. Will the authorities have to know all about 
him?” 

“You had better ask Jeremy,” Mrs. Grant said 
reflectively. She was wondering at Marion’s evi- 
dent indifference to the fate of Rutherford. The 
girl hardly gave him a thought, and all her mind 
was feverishly full of Dillon and no one else. This 
did indeed explain matters, but the explanation was 
in no wise a satisfactory one to hear. 

Marion got up. “Where is Mr. Grant?” she 
asked. “I must see him at once.” 

“He is in the house. But Marion— Marion.” 


228 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


Mrs. Grant called in vain as her guest ran up the 
hill, paying no heed to her, and she was obliged to 
follow more slowly, feeling that things were very 
wrong with Marion Keith. 

It was not very easy to state the case to Mr. 
Grant. He asked a number of questions, and when 
he became aware of Dillon’s record he grew exceed- 
ingly grim and hard. Rosemary Villa had sheltered 
a nest of evil doers, and though he remained kind 
in speech to Marion, he did not hesitate to tell 
her that any action on her part must be forbidden 
while she remained with them as a guest. There 
was nothing for her to do, but her distress was so 
evident that at length he reluctantly suggested that 
he would go to Rangoon himself and make full in- 
quiries. 

“She must leave Burma,” he told his wife, “and 
go back to England as she originally suggested. At 
all costs, she must be set out of reach of that black- 
guard, and we must do what we can to help her.” 

Mrs. Grant agreed, adding to herself that Dillon 
was an attractive man, and sighing, because attrac- 
tion so unfrequently combines itself with the higher 
virtues. 

At the end of another week the Pegu was on its 
way back to Rangoon, and Mr. Grant with it. 

Mr. Grant arrived in Rangoon subject, like the 
rest of 1 us, to certain prejudices. He had promised 
Maron Keith to see her aunt and uncle, and bring 
her word of them, but of Dillon he refused to speak. 
He was deeply shocked to think that she could take 
any interest in a man whom she admitted to be thor- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 229 

oughly depraved, and his former feeling of liking for 
her changed and became cold. She was infected with 
“the modern spirit,” and he could not be at all sure 
that she had not encouraged the attentions of’ Ruth- 
erford. Her life at Rosemary Villa had evidently 
exercised a bad influence upon her, and though it 
saddened him to think so, he was less friendly to 
her than he was prepared to admit. Fundamental 
differences of ideas are destructive to friendship, 
and he saw her with more critical eyes as he weighed 
the question. 

Upon his arrival at Rajigoon he took up his quar- 
ters with fiis old friend Philip Macarthur, who was, 
in company with the rest of Rangoon, full of the 
story of Rutherford’s suicide and the sudden dis- 
appearance of Marion Keith. The Rev. Philip 
Macarthur regarded Marion as morally responsible 
for the tragic death of the young man, and spoke 
with vehemence to Mr. Grant,, who held his peace 
but grew excessively uncomfortable in mind. The 
Radstocks had kept a polite gambling hell, even 
worse things were hinted of them, and Rutherford 
had been their dupe. To get him there into their 
power Marion had drawn the luckless man on, to 
the point of despair, and, in the eyes of Mr. Mac- 
arthur, she stood responsible. 

“In these days,” he said, looking at Jeremy Grant 
through his spectacles, “it becomes our duty to take 
a firm line. What has happened to the young 
woman we none of us know, but ,she has made her- 
self an outcast.” 

“I am sorry to hear all this,” Mr. Grant said un- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


230 

comfortable. “Very sorry. We were fellow trav- 
ellers on the voyage out, and I thought her a modest, 
well brought up young lady.” 

“Appearances are very deceitful,” Mr. Macarthur 
remarked firmly. 

“And this fellow, Dillon. What of him?” 

“He is still in Rangoon, I am told. Very little 
is known about him, but I hear that Ms position is 
a most invidious one. You come here to find the 
place all alight with the whole deplorable story. 
My converts — what am I to say to my converts, 
when, among Christians, such things are done?” 
Mr. Macarthur grew angry and paced the floor), 
taking down the books from the shelves, opening 
them and closing them with a bang, and then replac- 
ing them again, for he was much distressed in spirit. 

Mr. Grant held his peace. He was thankful that 
the Radstocks had left the place, as Marion’s visit 
to Myittha could now ,be kept secret, and 1 in the late 
evening he walked up to Rosemary Villa and looked 
at the deserted house and garden. On his return 
he passed Dillon on the road, and all his former 
doubt and dislike of him returned fourfold. 

So long as Dillon hung about Rangoon it was not 
safe for Marion Keith t|o appear even in Myittha, 
under her own name, and the subterfuge irritated 
Mr. Grant. He saw, quite clearly, that she must be 
got away secretly, and that she should lose no time 
in doing so. Macarthur had' impressed him with 
the fact of Marion’s moral responsibility in the mat- 
ter, and his heart contracted quickly and shut! her 
out. She must bear the penance of her own light- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 231 

mindedness, and though he was prepared to help 
her to get work, he was not prepared to encourage 
her to remain his g[uest. 

All that he heard during his week’s stay in Ran- 
goon only intensified his secret anger towards Mar- 
ion Keith. She had, in a sense, fallen among thieves, 
but that did not exonerate ( her. To Mr. Grant’s 
mind, a woman who was personally attractive to 
men, was a snare in the path. He heard rumours 
of Nesbit’s attentions, and his belief in her inno- 
cence fell away. She had rujn off to Myittha so sud- 
denly and he wondered whether she had been entirely 
truthful when she said that she had ! not known what 
took place in the garden, that night. If Marion 
had been a plain, hard-featured woman, or a soft, 
domestic wifely person, like Esme, he would have 
suspended his judgments, but as it was, her charm 
destroyed his faith. In some vague way, he was 
aware of it, and had submitted to its spell, and for 
that very reason he was all the more resentful. 

As no one suspected that he knew anything at all, 
he was forced to sit in great discomfort while Mrs. 
Macarthur expressed her views. She was a' law- 
giver, and there was no appeal from her judgments. 

The week dragged interminably, and at length 
Mr. Grant stood on the deck of the Maymyo, and 
looked up the wide reaches of the river, chewing 
the end of his bitter memories. That he should be 
the accomplice of a girl who, at best, was a heartless 
flirt was bad enough, but to be forced to keep her 
under his roof any longer had now become intoler- 
able to him. He reckoned out the days of the jour- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


232 

ney which the Maymyo would take, steaming to 
Mogaung, and returning after three days. If the 
passage known as the Third Defile was passable 
for navigation now that the floods were subsiding, 
Marion must catch the steamer oa its return journey 
and go (back to Rangoon. He had booked a pro- 
visional passage for “Miss Grant,” much against 
his conscience, and that would secure her an imme- 
diate; transport to England. 

As he was not really unkindly, he had decided to 
give her a letter to his friend, Dr. Arnold, who had 
written saying that he was in dismay at the prospect 
of losing his secretary who was going to be married, 
and the date would coincide with Marion’s return. 
The place might be filled when she got back, but 
even if it were, he intended to ask Dr. Arnold to do 
what he could for the girl. She must plead for her- 
self, in any case, and the time had come when she 
could not remain under his roof. Each day on the 
river hardened his resolution, and he mounted the 
rise of his own house with determination in his heart. 

Marion met him at the gate, with Esme, and her 
eyes sought his, full of question. Something in his 
manner informed her at once that he was no longer 
her friend, and she prepared herself for what she 
was to hear. She had become accustomed to disas- 
ter, and met it quietly. In any case she realised 
that it would be impossible to stay on at Myittha 
and that, wherever she went, she could not continue 
to receive the hospitality of Mr. Grant. 

She listened to what he told her, and sat submis- 
sively while he pointed out to her that the way of 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


233 

transgressors is hard. It was no use saying anything 
in her own defence, for he would not understand, and 
her distress with regard to Dillon was lessened. 
Nothing had happened to him, and she had worked 
herself up for no reason. Somehow or other, he 
had escaped his reckoning with fate. 

“I saw Mr. Dillon,” Mr. Grant said harshly, “but 
I could not speak to him. He is a man to whom 
no decent man will offer any appearance of friend- 
ship. Let me warn you afresh, Miss Keith, against 
your unfortunate habit of easy friendship.” 

In the end it was decided, under a decent cloak of 
affection on the part of Esme Grant, and a dignified 
tolerance from her husband, that Marion should 
go. Esme was loyal, but Jeremy’s opinions were al- 
ways her own, and she suffered, drawn between two 
forces. Marion and she had receded from one an- 
other, and were like two people waving their hands 
in greeting over a wide, dividing river, which grew 
vaster with every hour which passed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Out of necessity rather than choice, Marion Keith 
accepted Mr. Grant’s letter of introduction to his 
friend Professor Arnold. It added to her sense of 
obligation, which is nothing when the giver is gen- 
erous, but which can be ashes and dust if the facts 
are otherwise. 

Dr. Arnold was an elderly professor engaged in 
the by-ways of scientific research, who lived in a 
small Devonshire village called Exwater. Years 
ago Mr. Grant had) been a pupil of his, and Dr. 
Arnold had an affectionate memory for his young 
men, following their careers with unflagging devo- 
tion. He had found something to interest him in 
Jeremy Grant, and with his queer tenacity, kept him 
in mind and wrote letters to him at regular inter- 
vals. If Professor Arnold was already provided 
with a secretary, Marion had no alternative, and 
the money for her passage swallowed up the greater 
part of her resources. 

It was not that which made her seek her cabin 
and cry her heart out, as she left Rangoon in the 
Worcestershire , and indeed she never gave it a 
thought. So long as she and Quentin were in the 
same land, the overpowering sense of loss had been 
easier to bear. Now, a door was shut definitely be- 
tween them, and never in this world could she hope 
234 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


235 

or expect to see him again. She crept up on deck 
and watched the distant line of the port as it died 
away from her sight, and remind herself as she 
might, that Dillon was worthless, and that she had 
no right to give him a thought, her anguish did not 
lessen in the least. 

The day died, and night came with its darkness, 
and the sound of the ship ploughing through hissing 
seas seemed the saddest she had ever heard. The 
voyage was interminably long, dragging its slow 
days through, and she joined in none of the enter- 
tainments provided for the second-class passengers, 
so that they concluded that she was putting on airs 
and thought herself too good for her company, and 
her isolation became complete. 

She recalled the journey out, and Dillon’s care 
of her; the transformation he had worked by his 
thoughtfulness, her gratitude to him for his kind- 
ness, and then, the sudden dawn of her own love 
for him. Her sorrow grew tearless, and she was 
able to govern, if not to conquer, the\ passion of 
her distress. Her pride and her love burned like 
vital fires within, the two flames for ever hostile, 
and she knew that she could never forget, never 
henceforth be the same in heart or action, and .that 
the long battle would continue until her youth wore 
itself out into age. 

Yet she used the simple weapon of self-respect 
against the might of the temptation to write him a 
short line, saying where she was, 1 and so she con- 
quered. It was a little thing, perhaps, and; yet it 
made up the sum of those things which are intrin- 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


236 

sically great because of pity and grief, and love 
and sadness. The last memory she had of him was 
that of his gay, uplifted face, and then the tearing 
sound of a shot, and she' could still hear his foot- 
steps running up the path and dying slowly away, 
as of one who goes and can never return. 

It was better when she reached England and took 
up her life once more, finding herself rooms in quiet 
lodgings in Chelsea. She wrote to Dr. Arnold, send- 
ing him Mr. Grant’s letter, and at the same time 
making a clear confession of her own ignorance 
with regard to the post. It would be an insupport- 
able burden on ;her conscience to hide anything, 
and she hardly expected a reply. 

But the reply came with surprising rapidity, as 
Dr. Arnold telegraphed, asking her to come at once 
on a month’s trial. A letter followed in which he 
told her that he did not require a typist or a secre- 
tary with any knowledge of shorthand. 

“I have moved slowly all my life,” he wrote in a 
pointed old-fashioned hand, “and I like leisure.” 

Marion looked out through the dusty window 
at the street below and smiled to herself. Once, 
the idea of such employment would have depressed 
her horribly, but now, all she asked was seclusion 
and peace. Dillon had told her laughingly of the 
Santamingo, a bird which was supposed by sailors 
to live in a place called the “Evening Island,” and 
if you could catch it you got rest of heart. 

“You and I will never catch a Santamingo, Mar- 
ion,” he said, “and I don’t think we shall find the 
Evening Island either.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


237 

It was a far cry from the blue Eastern seas to 
Exwater, and not to be supposed that the Santa- 
mingo rested in the trees of Devon, but Marion 
made up her mind to try her best to please the pro- 
fessor, who liked leisure. If she failed to do so 
she would be out in the storm again, but what was 
the use of looking ahead? 

She packed up her few belongings and left the 
crush and noise of London the following day, watch- 
ing the changing country through the windows of 
the railway carriage. She had to catch a connection 
at a branch line at Exeter, and as she crossed the 
platform she saw a tall, aggressive-looking woman 
who got into a first-class carriage on the same line. 
Something in the way the woman walked was fa- 
miliar, though Marion was certain she had never 
seen her before. Still, the annoyingly evasive mem- 
ory troubled her. Not only the woman’s personal- 
ity was disagreeable, but the connection in her mind, 
which evaded her, was also unpleasant. 

The train travelled slowly, stopping at every sta- 
tion and bringing her at last to Exwater. She had 
enjoyed the first clear sweetness of the keen sea air, 
and as she got out, her colour had returned to her 
with the excitement of the new experience. There 
were very few people on the platform, and again 
Marion noticed the heavy-eyed, insolent-looking wo- 
man who, with the air of a second-rate queen, made 
her way through the gates, got into a carriage and 
drove off. As she watched her, touched by the 
queer uncertainty of her own feeling, an elderly man 
walked towards her and raised his soft, grey felt hat. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


238 

“Have I the pleasure of welcoming Miss Keith?” 
he asked. “I am Professor Arnold.” 

He was a man of middle size, carelessly dressed, 
but with a very impressive air of vigour and determi- 
nation. 

“I see,” he went on, “that you are admiring our 
local empress, Mrs. Hume Nesbit. A lady of char- 
acter. Character is my hobby, as you will discover 
presently.” 

“Mrs. Nesbit?” Marion said, and the colour for- 
sook her face. “Is that who she is?” 

She fancied that he looked at her a little oddly as 
he gave the porter orders to have her luggage sent 
to the house. 

“I have neither a car nor a bicycle,” he remarked, 
“and I called my house the Green Gate, because 
it has a green gate, and I could think of no other 
name for it. A confession of lack of imagination, 
you may think.” 

Marion hardly heard what he said. Old troubles, 
like old sins, have long shadows, and it alarmed her 
to find that having taken, as it were, the wings of 
the morning and hidden herself in a remote village 
in South Devon she should come face to face with 
Nesbit’s mother. How was it she had not imme- 
diately recognised her? The troubling sensation 
was explained, for mother and son were cut in the 
self-same pattern. She consoled herself quickly, 
and walked beside Professor Arnold down the steep 
village street. 

“Exwater is full of eyes at this hour,” he said in 
his pleasant voice. “Outwardly you see a simple 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 239 

village, the picture of repose and quiet, and pres- 
ently you will hear the carillon. We have a caril- 
lon to remind us that time is passing,” he looked at 
her with the same closely interested glance, “and 
yet I can assure you that we have our faults and 
our failings, and are not quite as good as we look 
— which,” he added, “makes us all the more inter- 
esting.” 

They had come to the green gate as he spoke, and 
he opened it. A wall ran along one side of the 
road, and on the other a row of small houses of 
attractive and old-fashioned exterior made a kind of 
residential quarter. Above them the tower of the 
church stood square, with gilded weathercocks at 
each corner, and, as Professor Arnold opened the 
gate, the chimes rang out, possessing the air with 
their slow, deep cadence. 

A curtain of crimson roses in flower, flowing over 
the grey stone wall, had prepared Marion Keith 
for a garden, but when she walked in through the 
gate she stood still in surprise at the beauty of the 
scene before her. High yew hedges stood around 
the green turf, which was old and beautifully kept, 
and under an arch, cut in the close dark green, she 
could see the sweep of the river, and hear its mur- 
mur as it passed on to the sea. Walking onwards, 
with her hands clasped, she stood on a stone ter- 
race, which ran from the back of the house to a 
flight of dark wood stairs, which went straight down 
to the river; great masses of valerian in pink flower 
grew in the low wall, and delicate rock plants col- 
oured the grey of the flags. A rose-garden lay be- 


240 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


yond, and she turned away, as the too intense sweet- 
ness of a syringa brought back memories upon her, 
for she had promised herself that she would forget. 

“The house has the advantage of being unique,” 
Professor Arnold said, pleased with her pleasure 
in his garden, and she turned and looked at the low 
stone building with its heavy mullioned windows. 
“It was once a shed, and used in old days when 
Exwater was a great shipbuilding centre. Those 
days are done, Miss Keith, and there, at the end of 
the balcony, you will see the survivor of a van- 
ished tradition.” 

Marion’s eyes followed his glance. At the end 
of a balcony, and looking eternally out to the blue 
horizon of the sea, a huge ship’s figurehead had 
been placed, of a centurion in armour. 

“He and I are equally out of place in the mod- 
ern world,” the professor went on, “but we have 
both done our duty in our time, and here we both 
are. What he is watching for I do not know, 
and what I am watching for” — he broke off and 
laughed — '“why, I could not tell you that either. 
He wears better than I do in spite of his past history, 
but you must be tired. Like all silent men, when 
once I begin to talk I never know when to leave off.” 

Inside, the house was long and divided into two 
stories, two staircases leading upwards from the 
lower parts of the building, lighted by windows col- 
oured with exquisite, faintly-tinged stained glass, 
which had been brought there from Italy. There 
was not the smallest touch of artificial culture any- 
where, and the heavy carving over the mantelpiece 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


241 

in Professor Arnold’s working room and through 
the house was singularly beautiful. There was 
something so spacious and at the same time irregular 
and unexpected in the house, that each new room 
revealed fresh treasures to the delighted eyes of 
Marion. The rough stone walls on the outer side 
of her own room had been distempered in soft prim- 
rose, and were otherwise still exactly as they had 
been when the Green Gate was part of the shipbuild- 
ing works, and it seemed to her that the contrast 
lent an added touch of dignity. The old association 
of the place still existed, combined with the delicate, 
fantastic additions brought to it by Professor Ar- 
nold. There was something of the cloister in the 
atmosphere, and the long music-room at the further 
end of the house held an organ, towering up with 
gilded pipes to the uncovered rafters of the roof. 
Old memories lived silently in the rooms, touched 
half solemnly with a consciousness of many things 
— the significant events of life, contacts and partings 
belonging to far-off times. The dusky, jewelled 
effect of the stained-glass windows, and the open 
freedom of the wide balcony from where the cen- 
turion looked out to sea, gave harmony to the heart, 
and below the river stretched widely, the country 
beyond it lying like a many-coloured carpet, spread- 
ing away to the distant line of Dartmoor, dark 
against the gentle sky. 

Marion felt that the modern world was at last 
very distant from her, and she could shelter safely 
behind the comforting grey stone walls. The roses 
of life would blossom and fall quietly, just as they 


242 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


did in the garden outside, with nothing but the 
changing season to scatter the drift of velvety, 
scented leaves; and she sat in her room listening to 
the sound of murmuring water and offered up a 
prayer of thankfulness; for just then she sincerely 
believed that all she needed was peace. 

The professor was, she discovered, a psychologist, 
and as she sat at the heavy oak table he told her that 
he was working on his last book. “My swan song,” 
he called it. 

“I am growing old, and the time gets short,” he 
said, standing in front of the fire-place as he filled 
his pipe with tobacco from an old Dutch jar. “Life 
seems very long at your age, Miss Keith, but when 
you are forty it will suddenly contract and you 
will think of all the things you might have done. 
When you are my age you will wonder whether it 
has all been worth the trouble, and conclude, as I 
have, that work for its own sake is what the gods 
have given us.” 

Marion raised her eyes and met his look. “But 
you must have done so much,” she said. “It must 
be something to realise that.” 

He smiled at her. “Yet the secret is that no one 
really does anything. This is the planet of good 
intentions and failure to achieve. We see the neces- 
sity for reforms, and yet they are not made, though 
numbers of worthy and well-meaning people spend 
their lives in the effort ... ah, well” — he broke 
off. “What is the use of preaching? Of all the 
virtues the one I most favour is Faith. Keep faith 
with yourself, and you can win most battles.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


243 

“But faith In others?” she lowered her eyes, 
“when they have deceived one; that is far harder.” 

Professor Arnold walked to the window and 
looked out at the distant ridge of the moor. “Noth- 
ing is easy,” he said at last. “Never try to per- 
suade yourself that it is. At your age, love, I imag- 
ine, is what presents itself as the great ideal. Even 
that passes away.” 

The evening sunlight was falling redly on the 
water and the low green hills, and it touched the 
helmeted head of the centurion with its lingering 
fire, while the carillon told the hour in music to the 
land. Turning away from the room, Professor Ar- 
nold spoke again, as much to himself as to Marion. 

“I do not know if you are a student of Nietzsche,” 
he said, “but late one evening in Genoa, he was 
standing in the twilight, and heard the long chiming 
of bells which sounded to him ‘as if insatiable’ above 
the noise of the street. It was to him so thrilling 
and, at the same time, so childish that the words of 
Plato came back to his mind: ‘Human matters, one 
and all, are not worthy of great seriousness — nev- 
ertheless . . ” He leaned on the wooden bal- 

cony, his eyes towards the sunset. “We take our- 
selves too seriously,” he said slowly, “we humans; 
but one is forced back to the word ‘neverthe- 
less.’ . . 

She turned to her work again, and Professor 
Arnold went down the steps into the garden, and a 
little later she saw him pacing slowly up and down 
the stone terrace between the wind-blown clusters 
of pink valerian. 


CHAPTER XXII 


After a time Marion grew accustomed to the life 
at Exwater. Professor Arnold ignored his neigh- 
bours, and saw nothing of them, because he said 
that he had a wise man’s disinclination for admitting 
mosquitoes into his house, and he and his new sec- 
retary worked steadily at his book. 

Once or twice Marion saw Mrs. Nesbit drive 
along the road beyond the Green Gate, and, when- 
ever she saw her, the past laid cold fingers on her 
heart, but as the weeks went on and autumn came, 
she felt more securely established, and when the 
heavy south-westerly gales blew hard and sang 
around the grey walls, she sat at table near the 
hearth fire and drove away her memories. 

This man of books for whom she worked had a 
curiously vivid hold upon people and things, and 
had a genial humour of his own; and the days slid 
by graciously enough, and when the night wind clam- 
oured at her window and the voice of the Exe grew 
hoarse and loud, as she lay in bed at night, she could 
often hear him playing the organ, the great river 
of spacious sound flowing out to meet the tempest 
of waters, passing onwards in the dark. Marion 
moved through the weeks, held in the magic of the 
quiet dream. She knew that she would awake from 
it, but what would awaken her she could not guess. 

244 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


245 

It was one stormy November evening, and the 
streets of Exwater were rain-washed and grey, when 
the blow fell. Marion had gone out for a walk, and 
had taken her way along a narrow path by the 
river, as she came back through the village. It 
was dusk, but not yet dark, and as she passed by 
the lighted window of a shop, a man came out, and 
without looking in her direction, walked on in front 
of her. With a pang of fear she recognised Nesbit. 
He looked prosperous, and walked with his care- 
less swagger, staring at the girls whom he passed, 
and as she saw him her heart turned to water. 

Taking her way quickly down a side street she 
avoided any meeting with him, and ran to the Green 
Gate, closing the door behind her and finding her 
way blindly to her room. If Nesbit were to dis- 
cover that she lived in Exwater, her life would be- 
come unbearable, and it seemed like a piece of fe- 
rocious cruelty on the part of fate, that he should 
have appeared in the village. 

Nesbit was the type of man who pervades a place. 
She had learnt that at Rosemary Villa, and in the 
tiny village it would be infinitely worse. 

The house in which Mrs. Nesbit lived was one 
of the largest, at the end of the residential quarter, 
just opposite the Green Gate, and some of the win- 
dows overlooked the garden. As it was winter, 
there was not the same fear of being seen, but she 
told herself that she would have to be a prisoner 
within doors, until he went away again. Comfort 
lay in the thought that Nesbit would not remain 
long in such a place as Exwater, and that he would 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


246 

go to London, but even so, her privacy was assailed, 
and he had opened the door which she had closed so 
firmly. Through that door, not Nesbit, but Dillon 
walked with his deep laughing eyes and sensitive 
mouth. In fancy, Marion looked full at him again; 
and then she thought of the miserable arrival of 
Nesbit. He would cast out the peace of the green 
low hills and the gently winding valleys, take the 
glory from the clear, quick flowing water in the 
woodland. The unexpected incident had shaken 
her nerves. 

She joined Professor Arnold at dinner. A silver 
candelabra stood lighted on the table, which was 
drawn near the fire, and the Professor, who was in 
a silent mood, only nodded to her and said nothing, 
as she took her place opposite to him. 

After a time he spoke to Marion. “Your hand 
is shaking,” he remarked. 

Marion started slightly and laid down her spoon. 
She was wondering whether or not she should tell 
him the story of her meeting with Nesbit; but even 
though she had a real affection for the Professor 
she hesitated. He had a way of putting one un- 
der a microscope which she did not altogether like, 
and also she dreaded to increase her own fear if 
she spoke of it. 

“Is it?” she laughed; “I have been carrying a load 
of books in from the library.” 

Professor Arnold nodded and made no reply. 
He was subject to spells of silence which lasted for 
days, and Marion realised that at such times he 
did not wish her to speak. At the end of the meal 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


247 

the housekeeper, when she came to clear the table, 
brought a message saying that a gentleman wished 
to see Professor Arnold. Callers were so rare an 
event that Marion could not immediately hide her 
own agitation, and she overturned her glass, spilling 
the wine on the cloth. 

Professor Arnold rose and left the room, and 
when he came back later, he said nothing of his 
guest, neither who he was nor why he had come 
there, and began to dictate slowly, from notes he 
had made during the day. 

It grew unbearable for Marion to sit there in sus- 
pense, and more than once she missed her place 
and had to ask Professor Arnold to repeat himself. 
If he had noticed that her hand shook, he must cer- 
tainly have noticed her abstraction, she felt, but 
whether or not, he remained silent. 

All the next day she kept in the house, and though 
it was fine and sunny, she made a lame excuse and 
refused to walk with him in the garden. Instinc- 
tively she knew that he was watching her, but did 
not make the smallest effort to coerce her into any 
action, and so the week went by. 

At the end of the week Marion rallied her cour- 
age, and walked in the garden with Professor Ar- 
nold. He was in a talkative mood again, and as 
they reached the door he took a letter from his 
pocket. “Will you be so kind as to put this in the 
letter box,” he said, “as it will catch the evening 
post,” and Marion took it, unable to refuse. 

She went into the road through the gate, and on 
to the letter-box, just opposite to the house where 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


248 

Mrs. Ncsbit lived; and with her eyes on the foot- 
path, and her heart beating unmercifully fast, she 
hurried on, and having slipped the letter into the 
box, returned on flying feet. 

‘‘You need not have run,” Professor Arnold said 
reprovingly. “Come now and take a turn with me 
on the terrace.” 

“May I ask,” she said doubtfully, “who came to 
see you a few nights ago?” 

“Certainly.” Professor Arnold expressed no 
surprise. “It was no one more interesting than the 
librarian from Exeter, bringing me a note he had 
made at my request.” 

Marion sat down on a low stone seat, laughing 
rather wildly. “I believe my nerves are upset,” 
she said. “I shall soon be all right again.” 

Professor Arnold stood before her and looked 
upwards. He was wrapped to the chin in a heavy 
coat. “I foretell snow,” he said, “the sky has a 
haggard look, and the wind is getting out of control 
already. See, it is tearing up the river now, like a 
wild invisible thing at the mercy of an insane im- 
pulse. If not to-night, to-morrow there will be 
snow.” 

Still nothing happened. 

The Professor’s forecast of snow proving a true 
one, Marion did not have to excuse herself for re- 
maining indoors, and the following Monday, he 
told her that he was going to Exeter and might not 
be back until late. The idea of being left alone 
for the day did not trouble her; it was more like 
being granted the gift of long hours during which 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


249 

she could think, as Eve may have thought in exile, 
of the fruit of the forbidden tree. The afternoon 
was clear, and intensely cold, and Marion put on a 
thick coat and wandered in the garden. Snow, half 
frozen on the evergreen of the hedges, and her own 
footprints made a solitary track across the white 
ground to the terrace ; she went to the further end, 
paused, and then turned back, and in doing so she 
came face to face with the fear which she had ex- 
pected ever since she had seen Nesbit in the village. 
He was coming towards her, his eyes on her face, 
and his hands deep in his pockets. 

“So here we are again,” he said genially, catching 
her by the elbow, and walking along beside her. 
“Funny old place this world is. I might never have 
known if it hadn’t been that my mother spotted you 
from the window as you were posting a letter. She 
said, ‘There goes the girl who is supposed to be Pro- 
fessor Arnold’s secretary. 

Marion pulled herself away from his hold of her. 
“I can only ask one thing of you,” she said, “and 
that is, to leave me in peace.” It was like being 
swept by a flood into a black cavern, and all her 
repulsion from him arose in her and cried aloud. 

“Come now,” he said, “I’m not going to ask you 
to marry me, again ; no fear. I’m pretty fairly cour- 
ageous, Marion, but I haven’t nerve enough for that. 
Do you know what they all say about you in Ran- 
goon?” 

“How could I know?” she asked desperately. 

“Why, that you shot poor old Suffy yourself and 
cleared out. I don’t altogether blame you, as I think 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


250 

he wanted shooting — that is, if you did do it, but 
now that I find you tucked away, warm and safe, 
with a doddering old professor, it seems to me that 
is where I come in.” He stood with his legs wide 
apart barring her path, as she turned her eyes to 
his face with a piteous, frozen stare. 

“They say that I shot Suffy Rutherford?” she 
asked. “It’s a lie.” 

“Maybe.” He cocked his hat on one side and 
smiled at her. “Perhaps you’re a moral murderess, 
not an actual one. You’re prettier than ever, and 
the climate has suited you well. By jove, when I 
saw you through the window, I nearly dropped. 
But I gave nothing away. I’ve been careful — one 
has to be careful in a dirty little hole like Exwater, 
and that is why I waited before coming to pay my 
respects.” 

Marion turned from him and leaned on the snow- 
covered balustrade. The grey afternoon was fad- 
ing into twilight, and a sunset like a narrow sword 
of brilliant orange smouldered behind the western 
hills. 

“Don’t pretend that you aren’t glad to see me,” 
he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “I’m bet- 
ter than your snuffy old professor, better than that 
fellow Dillon” ; he tightened the grasp of his fingers. 
“We came back on the same boat, he and I, and I 
showed him what I thought of him.” 

Marion did not stir. So Quentin was back. The 
knowledge flooded over her and warmed her for a 
second, and then she remembered that if he were 
in England, it was never to her that he could come ; 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


251 

but for a second, the announcement stunned her and 
*he could not speak. 

“Now, look here,” Nesbit said argumentatively, 
“I’m not going to beat about the bush. If I choose 
to let things out about you, it’ll be awkward for you 
in a place like this. I don’t know, of course, how 
much your old fellow will stand, but I know that 
Exwater won’t sit quiet. It’s all a bit too highly 
flavoured, and already they talk about you.” 

“Please go away,” she said, without turning. 

“I can’t do any comfortable courting under the 
windows of my mother’s house,” Nesbit continued, 
“and I don’t intend to. While I am here, I must do 
as the damned what-you-may-call-’ems do, and mind 
my steps; but I shan’t stay long; a day or two at 
most, and you must arrange to meet me in London.” 

As she said nothing he repeated the words. “I’ll 
give you a really good time,” he said, “no end of a 
time, Marion.” 

At that she turned and spoke breathlessly. She 
was so angry that she could not find words, and 
when she spoke she quivered, standing in the icy cold 
of the evening, like a fire-tipped lance. “You are 
utterly shameless and beneath disdain,” she said, 
beating back his hands from her. “You accused 
me, or said that others accused me, of having killed 
a man; if I could do so now, it would be true”; a 
long, shuddering sigh went up from her at the agonis- 
ing force of her own furious passion of indignation. 

“You have come here and trampled on decency 
and peace,” she went on, “and you threaten me. Do 
what you like, say what suits you best, but go away.” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


252 

He caught her hands, and she crushed back 
against the balustrade; it was an ugly moment as 
Nesbit held her by force and, bending back her neck, 
kissed her upturned face. And then the distant 
sound of the garden door opening and closing 
startled him and he let her go. 

“Don’t make an unholy fuss about nothing,” he 
said, speaking rapidly, “I’ll see you again.” 

Released from his grasp, Marion ran along the 
terrace and down the steps. She was trembling 
with anger and fear, and Professor Arnold laid his 
hand on her shoulder as she came to him. 

“If you are in any trouble,” he said kindly, “you 
must not hesitate to tell me of it” ; he opened the 
door as he spoke and she went into the dark hall. 
“I am one of those people who understand that any- 
thing can happen.” 

“I have seen someone who frightened me,” she 
said, when they had reached the long room which 
was full of ghostly shadows. “He is here in Ex- 
water, and I know now that I cannot stay any 
longer.” 

“Sit down and tell me,” he said quietly. 

“It is all a hopeless tangle,” she went on, “but 
it appears, now, that I am accused of being the 
cause of a man’s death.” 

“And this person who has forced himself upon 
you in my house has been threatening you?” 

“I think that is what he meant.” Marion’s voice 
faltered. 

“Put it all aside,” Professor Arnold said quietly. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


253 

“The wild years have to be lived through. You 
are in safety here with me.” He looked at her, her 
face showing dim and white in the shadows. “May 
I ask if you cared at any time for this man?” 

“Never,” she said, her voice ringing clearly in the 
room. 

“And you would rather not tell me who he is, or 
how he traced you?” 

She considered for a moment. “I would rather 
not,” she agreed. 

“I do not wish to pry into your secrets,” he said 
with infinite courtesy. “My judgments are never 
formed through what I hear from other people, so 
you can safely allow yourself to keep silence.” 

She got up and took his hand in hers and pressed 
it to her heart. Her gratitude went too deep for 
expression, but she thought in the troubled depths 
of her mind, that she was — even though so reluc- 
tantly — a disturber of the peace. She would drag 
the clamour of her own past into his solitude, and 
make for distraction in its ugly sense. 

“I am a storm-centre,” she said, with a pitiful 
little laugh. “Why is it, Professor Arnold?” 

“How can I tell?” he returned the pressure of 
her hands. “It has probably something to say to 
the shape of your nose. You know the saying that 
if Cleopatra had squinted, the history of Egypt 
would have been a very different one.” 

She could only see the outline of his figure against 
the window, and could not read his face, but he 
had comforted her inexpressibly. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


254 

“Then, even if I am very troublesome, you will 
put up with me?” she asked. 

“I will put up with you; and if this man appears 
again, he will have to deal with me,” Professor Ar- 
nold said with a touch of unusual anger in his voice. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


It cost Quentin an effort to leave Rangoon, and 
put away as impossible all hope of finding Marion 
Keith. Where she was, he could not imagine, or 
how she had hidden herself so completely, and when 
he at last applied to the police, and every means at 
the disposal of Hall, the Chief Commissioner, had 
been tried in vain, Dillon was forced to give up his 
last hope, and made up his mind to return to 
England. 

Always before this, he had, even when sorely 
disappointed, been able to provide himself with an 
alternative, but at last he was at the bottom of the 
bag. He loved Marion, not only with the passion- 
ate love of early manhood, but with something far 
more enduring and secure. She was his own; there 
was nothing he did not understand in her, and even 
if he never saw her with his living eyes again, she 
would continue to be the throbbing centre of his 
life. 

Sick, disappointed and hopeless, he made the ar- 
rangements for his return, and stood as the last 
faint outline of Rangoon died from sight, wonder- 
ing whether he should still have remained there 
waiting on if a single hope were left. In his heart 
he called her name, with all the agony of an eternal 
parting, and in his memory it seemed to him that 
255 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


25 6 

he was tragically identified with everything which 
had gone wrong with her. 

The damnable fiction that he was Dillon the 
forger, the man of vile morals and loose life, to 
which he had willingly lent himself, had turned her 
from him. With every justification she had refused 
to let him come near her, and in the reaction, had 
been driven to take the hand of friendship which 
the ill-fated Suffy had held out to her. The end 
of all that had been that Suffy had committed the 
weakling’s act, and so flung confusion on all sides. 
He had left a curse upon Rosemary Villa, which 
Marion was forced to expiate, and it was believed 
by many that her hand had fired the shot. Suffy had 
gone off in a blaze of drama, but the fires he evoked 
consumed the innocent girl whom he had professed 
to love. 

As he thought and thought of it all, Quentin 
became more convinced that Marion must have 
known of Suffy’s death, and in the horror of it, 
had acted impetuously. The fact that she had fled 
away from Rosemary Villa was easy enough to 
understand, but beyond that an impenetrable blank 
covered every trace of her departure. 

Quentin felt that he had been beaten, and his 
anxiety for Marion only grew with the passing of 
time. It was irritating to find that Nesbit was 
among the passengers, and though both men avoided 
one another, the exasperation was acute. 

Once more the results of his hastily considered 
act was brought home to Dillon, when Nesbit asked 
him, with sneering emphasis, whether he was likely 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


257 

to be received by his wife, and other interested peo- 
ple, on his arrival. Either he must tell Nesbit the 
whole story, and stoop to explaining things to a 
man he loathed, or let the brute chatter round the 
ship, pointing him out as the successful bluffer who 
had duped Rangoon. On the whole, Dillon pre- 
ferred this to the other course of action, and his 
position on the ship was that of a celebrity with an 
exceptionally unpleasant record. He could not seek 
any solace in the bridge-room, as other men showed 
clearly that they would not play cards with him, 
and his hot, fiery temper had to be curbed and 
stifled every hour of the long days. 

He was an outcast in the eyes of the people who 
sat around him, and talked of him in whispers; a 
dog with a bad name, and a by-word in the East. 
The fact that none of them liked Nesbit made no 
difference, and he even gained a little popularity 
when he began to tell his fellow voyagers all the 
very unseemly details of Dillon’s raffish past. 

And yet he looked so different to what might be 
expected, that one or two of the women ranged 
themselves on his side and fought his battles. 

“He always specialised in women,” Nesbit said 
with a laugh, “and can fool them to any extent.” 

It is never pleasant to be entirely isolated, unless 
one is a saint or a reformer, and Quentin was 
neither. He was being “put through it” because he 
had been a fool, and admitted his kinship to Suffy 
Rutherford in this respect; yet it made nothing 
easier, and even the most stoically minded man 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


258 

alive does not care to be scorned by people whom he 
regards as his inferiors. 

He left the ship at Marseilles without a single 
good-bye ; even ignoring the sentimental young lady 
who wore her heart on her sleeve and was in love 
with him in spite of his sins, and an exotic-looking 
grass-widow, who had added to his wretchedness by 
the heat of her pursuit, which had first taken the 
form of offers of cigarettes, and during the progress 
through the Red Sea had become proportionately 
fervid. 

London had nothing to offer him. He avoided 
his club and went to Dawn to see his mother. 

“Well?” she asked, looking up at him from her 
chair by the fire. “You are out of the groove, 
Quentin.” 

“I have only exchanged it,” he said. He did 
look altered, she told herself, as he stood there with 
his hands in his pockets and his dark hair shining 
in the sunlight which streamed through the window. 
“In fact, mother, I got into some one else’s groove 
instead, and it was abominably uncomfortable. He 
has a wife and had been anything but particular in 
the past.” 

“You haven’t undertaken his liabilities?” she 
asked with her wonderful smile. Since he was a 
baby she was never sure when he was joking or 
serious. 

“No, not as bad as that,” he said, “and, now, I 
honestly don’t know what to do next.” 

“Sandra is engaged,” Mrs. Dillon said, watch- 
ing his face carefully. “She is going to marry 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 259 

Clarence Wilde. I hear that he is a very good 
young man.” 

“I am glad,” he replied, staring before him. The 
news had come with a slight sense of shock. Sandra 
had always been there, before, and now her de- 
parture would leave a gap. 

“And did you not find anyone?” his mother 
asked, a look of anxiety troubling her face. 

“I did a much worse thing,” he said, sitting down 
in a low chair beside her; “I lost someone, and try 
as I will I can’t find her again.” 

Mrs. Dillon touched his sleeve with her long 
fingers, and said nothing. If Quentin wished to tell 
her his secrets, she was ready to listen, but not for 
anything would she intrude upon his reserve, but 
the look of distress in her son’s eyes lay there like a 
shadow. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes 
deep with thought, and his face absorbed. Just 
then he was lost in his dream, and she knew it to 
be a tragic one. 

“I expect we shall be alone, mother,” he said, 
“you and I, to the end of things.” 

“Did she not care?” 

“I think she did. Sometimes I was sure of it, but 
she went away, and no one knows where she went 
to.” 

Bit by bit the story was told, as the shadows crept 
up slowly and the pleasant room grew dark. 

“Quentin, what a mad thing to do,” she said at 
last. “It is bad enough to be responsible for one’s 
self and one’s young mistakes when one grows older, 


26 o 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


but to undertake to be someone else is really beyond 
everything. ... I pity the girl from my heart.” 

“I always was a scape-goat,” Quentin laughed. 
“I have been held responsible for my friends’ sins 
since I could speak. Don’t you remember, mother, 
when I was a little boy with a love for getting myself 
into every kind of mess, I was blamed if Clarence 
Wilde had a dirty face. It wasn’t his fault, it was 
my bad influence; and that has been the way of it 
ever since. When Forrester went a mucker at my 
crammer’s, I was told off, though I had nothing to 
say to it; and all along I have stood the racket and 
got the kicks. It hardly seemed to make anything 
worse to pretend that I was out and out Esau, but I 
admit that it wasn’t a very sensible thing to do.” 
He stopped and kissed her. “Everyone, so I’m 
told, has to suffer in this world, and I’m not going 
to make a fu§s.” 

“And the girl, that poor, forsaken child? Where 
can she be?” Mrs. Dillon’s voice was charged with 
deep feeling. 

“If I could only tell you,” he said in a low voice; 
and then he walked to the window and began to 
whistle a rag-time. 

He stayed on at Dawn through the winter, and 
with the spring his old restlessness returned upon 
him and drove him up to London. It offered him 
very little in the way of alleviation from his 
thoughts, but he was uncertain as to where he wished 
to be. A dryness of heart had come over him, and 
all places were much the same. One day, as he 
walked down Regent Street, he was surprised to 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 261 

see Nesbit coming towards him, and would have 
passed him by without recognition had it not been 
that the proprietor of the Palm Hotel stopped full 
in his path, and looked at him with studied in- 
solence. 

“Hallo, Dillon,” he said, “so you aren’t in 
Dartmoor.” 

“Drop that lie,” Quentin said sharply. His 
nerves were on edge, and he could not be sure of 
his temper. 

“It was your own lie, anyhow,” Nesbit said more 
amiably. “I only heard lately that you’d bluffed us, 
as well as the rest of Rangoon. I can’t think why 
you did, but it’s got nothing to say to me.” 

“Nothing at all,” Dillon agreed, and would have 
passed onwards only that Nesbit caught him by 
the arm. 

“I’ve a bit of pleasant news for you,” he said in 
a voice which sounded like the jab of a knife. “That 
sly little cat, Marion Keith, is living at Exwater with 
an old professor, and the place rings with it. Pretty 
audacious, I call it, in an English village. I went 
there, but got no thanks, so I’d not advise you to 
call”; he laughed as Dillon’s face flared up hotly. 

“You have always been a liar,” he said, “and now 
you are telling an exceptionally dirty lie.” 

“Oh, I was consolable,” Nesbit said as he turned 
away. “I gave her the first offer, and as she was 
fixed up, I didn’t go lonely.” 

Dillon looked at him as he mingled in the crowd, 
and his thoughts surged madly. Ill-conditioned as 
the messenger had been, the message was wildly 


262 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


and fiercely sweet. Marion Keith was not only 
alive, but in England, and as for the story of the 
professor, Quentin did not even give it a thought. 

He went back to his club and took down a rail- 
way guide, looking up the trains to Exwater. The 
country was in its early spring beauty, with feathery 
green larches flinging their plumes in the air and 
golden furze in blossom, and through the April gala 
of the land he was setting out to find Marion and 
bring her all the pent-up love of his longing heart. 
With a violent impetuosity he caught the train at 
Paddington and left London behind him, leaning 
back in a carriage with time to think, at last. 

All his riotous longing for new adventure had 
left him suddenly; he wanted, only, something he 
had lost. Marion stood to him for the lasting 
haven of happiness, and alone could give him the 
precious sense of rest. Bright clouds drifted over 
the blue, and here and there he had a glimpse of the 
golden vision of the brooding spirit of nature. 
These beautiful glimpses passed and vanished even 
while he did not notice them definitely. Everything 
was steeped in wonder and delight, for she who had 
been dead to him was alive, was lost and found 
again. 

It was characteristic of Dillon not to pause for a 
second to ask what greeting Marion Keith would 
give him. Spring time was over the world, and she 
was part of the uprising life and splendour of the 
season; she would take all that he had to give her, 
and they would fulfil the promise of the living 
springtide in her heart and his. His new adventure 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 263 

was full of sweet, restless seeking, wholly different 
from all other outgoings that he had known, and 
he thought of how he would draw her into his arms, 
and they would stand lips to lips. Destiny had led 
them along such hard, barren paths, and division 
had thwarted them, but now, at last, there would be 
an end to all that. He had crossed the gulf of the 
hours, and called her to him in actual companion- 
ship. She would come to him, would she not? 
Come to him in some beautiful green glade in the 
woods, or under the rose-red cliffs which stood up 
vividly from the blue sea. It must all take place 
between them, this great reunion, somewhere full of 
fitting beauty. Perhaps they would meet that very 
night when the moon was rising and throwing long 
silver arrows through the deep darkness of the fir 
trees. Quentin held his breath, and his heart beat 
violently, as he knew to the full all the age-old won- 
der of chivalry and passion. Marion, who was so 
simple and so young, so defenceless and yet full of 
courage. How wide of its mark the lie which Nesbit 
had thrown at her had been. 

Then, there would be so much to tell. He had 
his story, with its boyish folly, to confess, and she 
must have as much to say in return. Her flight from 
Rosemary Villa ; where she had been ever since ; how 
it was that she had come to Devonshire and dis- 
covered a professor to work for. It would be like 
the meeting of two lovers who had died and met 
again on the green hills somewhere in Eternity, and 
were able to recall the strange adventures of Time. 

The slow hours of the journey did not drag, as he 


264 A FOOL’S ERRAND 

let his mind go out towards the future, and when at 
length he got to Exeter and changed into the little 
train which was to bring him to Exwater, he might 
have looked to all outward appearance a rather 
unusually well-dressed and composed young man, but 
at heart he was robed in the very colours of sunset 
which dyed the land in their gorgeous tints. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Professor Arnold felt the warmth of the April 
sunlight as he stood on his balcony looking over the 
shine and ripple of the quiet river, and out to the 
hazy horizon of the far away sea. He had been 
thinking of his book rather than of his diligent secre- 
tary, and when he came back into the work-room he 
spoke to Marion, leaning over her chair. 

“You must go out and ‘greet the sun,’ ” he said, 
patting her shoulder. “I can’t have you growing 
old before your time.” 

Marion looked up. Her face was paler than it 
had been, and she had lost some of her round youth- 
fulness during the long winter. “Must I go out?” 
she asked. “Not farther than the garden?” She 
shook her head, “I can’t, Professor. I’m dreadfully 
cowardly, I suppose, but ever since people have been 
so cruel I hate having to face them.” 

“People are always cruel,” he said, “little people. 
For some reason or other they prefer to believe the 
worse they can of their neighbours. Don’t take it 
to heart too much.” 

Marion brushed her hair back from her forehead. 
She recalled a meeting with Mrs. Nesbit in the 
sunny road outside the Green Gate, and how Nesbit, 
who was with his mother, had stopped and spoken 
to her, the only time she had seen him again; she 
265 


266 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


remembered Mrs. Nesbit’s look of withering con- 
tempt, followed by a vulgar attack in words which 
Marion had never forgotten. The onslaught had 
been outrageous, and left a scar behind it, but it 
was not all. Rumours had come to her, and Cecily 
Gordon, the daughter of the Rector of Exwater, 
who had an extravagant girl’s friendship for her, 
had, without warning, cut Marion dead. Not that 
she blamed Cecily, who only acted under orders, but 
the sense of being regarded as a social leper brought 
its inevitable pain. 

She knew that more than one of the residents 
had written or spoken to Professor Arnold about 
his secretary, and even then, she did not know half 
what was believed against her. The professor had 
done his best to protect her from the sharp arrows 
of local slander, and at length the majority of the 
people in the village began to accuse him of having 
his own reasons for keeping Miss Keith in his em- 
ployment. They asked each other why, since he was 
a bachelor, he did not marry Miss Keith and silence 
the tongues of the gossips; and the forty years which 
divided them in age was not considered any excuse. 

Memory lives very long in country places, and as 
there was nothing else for them to talk of which was 
at all as interesting, the scandal grew. Nesbit had 
retaliated upon Marion by telling his mother that 
she had left a fine record behind her in the East, 
and had to escape out of Rangoon. There was the 
tragic accident in the garden of Rosemary Villa, a 
queer story about her and Dillon, which he had 
invented himself, and the undeniable fact that 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


267 

Marion had run away and remained in hiding for 
some time. All these things added together, and 
combined with the fact that she was now secretary 
to Professor Arnold, and that he was unmarried, 
were accepted as the most conclusive evidence 
against her. 

“I know we ought not to mind,” she said. 

“Tell me,” he asked her, “did the man who came 
to see you that day, ever attempt to force himself 
upon you again, or trouble you with letters?” 

Marion shook her head. She had not been able 
to bring herself to mention Nesbit to Professor Ar- 
nold, and even the hateful occasion when she met 
him and his mother had not been spoken of by her. 
Silence was the only possible means she had of pro- 
tecting her own self-respect. The Nesbits had been 
the authors of the worst accusations against her, 
and whether Professor Arnold knew that Mrs. Nes- 
bit’s son and the man who came to see her in the 
garden were one and the same, she could not tell. 
He never spoke to her of the trouble outside the 
gates, and it was his habit to remind her that 
“human matters, one and all, are not worthy of 
great seriousness — nevertheless. . . .” 

“Do not give these things a thought,” he said 
kindly. “I once quoted Nietzsche to you before, 
and I do so again. ‘However you may be situated, 
serve yourself as a source of experience.’ It is a 
wise man’s doctrine, and now, put on your hat,” he 
looked out at the gay day beyond the windows, 
“Nature ignores the chatterers, and the sun is just 
as warm as if they did not exist.” 


268 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


“I suppose it is,” she said, laughing a sad little 
laugh. “If only one could forget that they exist; 
find a door out of it all. I could be so happy here 
with you if they would only leave me alone.” 

“Which is exactly what you will never induce 
them to do, if you happen to be the type of indi- 
vidual who excites their envy.” 

“Envy?” she got up, “who could feel any envy 
towards me, I wonder?” 

“The gods gave you _golden hair,” he said, smil- 
ing, “and you know that when the wren was given 
a glittering crown, the other birds persecuted him 
and tried to kill him, and men also tried to kill him, 
so that Jupiter was kind enough to change the gold 
into feathers. It may have something to say to your 
hair, young lady.” 

“I shall dye it black,” she replied, and her laugh 
was steadier, “if that is the reason.” 

“You reap the advantage of being a bird of 
strange plumage,” he said, sitting down at the ta- 
ble, “and now go out, and fly up into the skies and 
find your songs again.” 

She waved her hand to him from the door. Pro- 
fessor Arnold had the gift of consolation, which is 
a very great one, and he had made her happier. 
“ ‘Human matters, one and all — ’ well, so be it,” 
she said to herself, “why should I care?” 


Professor Arnold worked steadily for half an 
hour, and at the end of that time a knock came to 
his door, and his housekeeper opened it. 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 269 

“There is a gentleman downstairs,” she said, 
“who wishes to see Miss Keith.” 

The professor collected his thoughts and looked 
up. “Miss Keith has gone out,” he said, and then 
he stood up suddenly. “Will you ask this gentle- 
man what he wants with Miss Keith, and kindly 
send up his name.” 

After a few moments’ delay, the housekeeper re- 
turned. “He is a Mr. Dillon, and knew Miss Keith 
in Rangoon,” she said. 

“Then show him up,” Professor Arnold said, 
standing by the fire-place. 

He had formed his own conclusions as to what 
manner of man the individual who had come to 
disturb the peace once more would probably be, and 
he looked at Dillon with his pebble-like eyes and 
watched him closely. This was not what he had 
expected, and he studied him carefully. There was 
something about Quentin which took the imagina- 
tion as well as the eyes, and he was irritated to find 
that the clear, open look of the blackguard made a 
claim to his sympathy. It was not only his good 
looks which attracted the professor, it was some- 
thing else as well. You could tell on sight that 
Dillon had the exquisite gift of fidelity. And yet, 
how could that be so?” 

“Sit down, Mr. Dillon,” he said, without any 
further welcome. “I should like to know your 
reason for wishing to see my secretary, Miss Keith, 
if it is agreeable to you.” 

Dillon sat down. “I should like to tell it to you,” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


270 

he said. “I came here to ask her if she would 
marry me.” 

“Then I can answer you at once. She will not.” 

Quentin leaned his arms on the table. “With all 
respect to you, Professor Arnold, I must hear her 
say so myself.” 

“You will admit, I think,” Professor Arnold said 
with great politeness, “that you have given that 
young lady a great deal of unnecessary pain. You 
made it impossible for her to remain in Rangoon, 
and now you come here, to bring fresh trouble upon 
her.” 

Dillon drew a quick breath. “I hope that her 
decision to leave Rosemary Villa had nothing to do 
with me,” he said. “There are things which I must 
explain to her, and to you also, if you will listen.” 

“I cannot see that any good object will be arrived 
at if I do listen,” the professor said. Answering 
rather querulously, “I am a busy man. I know that 
you have alarmed her already, and I intend to pro- 
tect her from further annoyance.” 

“But even a criminal is allowed to state his case,” 
Dillon objected. “Give me that much grace, in 
common justice.” 

“Justice is never common,” Professor Arnold 
said, meditatively. “However, since you make that 
appeal, I will listen to you.” He looked at Quentin 
again, and wondered how it was that he could appear 
to be so straightforward, and yet cover up such 
depths of deceit. On the whole, the young man was 
certainly dangerous. 

Dillon clasped his hands on the table and began 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 271 

to speak. “I want to cut the story as short as I 
can,” he said, “without leaving out any of the im- 
portant points.” 

“A thoroughly competent liar,” the professor re- 
flected. “I must certainly prevent any meeting be- 
tween him and Marion.” 

Dillon talked on rapidly. He spoke of himself 
as a man who had all his life acted on impulse, and 
the maddest whim of all had been his undertaking 
to impersonate another man, of whom he knew abso- 
lutely nothing. The professor’s face hardened, and 
as he went on with his story, a sense of helplessness 
gained upon Dillon. How could he expect to per- 
suade a man whose whole life was under the iron 
yoke of scientific fact, to accept the wildly improb- 
able facts of the case? 

“And you discovered, I understand, that this per- 
son, whose name you had adopted for the purpose 
of masquerade, was married?” 

“Yes,” Quentin said, moving restlessly. “How 
was I to know that? In fact, he told me he was 
not.” 

“Miss Keith was informed of the past record of 
the person whom you tell me is not you?” 

“I am sure that she was. But I also think that 
she liked me — as a friend, if nothing else.” 

Professor Arnold shook his head. “Your ac- 
count is entirely unsatisfactory,” he said, “and I may 
as well put an end to your feeling of suspense. Miss 
Keith told me that if you appeared here, she did not 
intend to see you, Mr. Dillon, and that she wished 
to be allowed to continue her life quietly. It would 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


272 

be only distressing to her to meet you, and I ask 
you, most sincerely, to spare her the pain of an inter- 
view. All that you say may be true. She never 
alluded to it; and, on an occasion which you will 
doubtless recall, she must have made her feelings 
quite clear.” 

Quentin frowned thoughtfully. “She did not 
know how things really were,” he said. “I had no 
chance to explain.” 

What a pity it all was, Professor Arnold reflected, 
but he did not express his thoughts. He must get 
rid of this urgent young man. Marion must be 
spared his ardour and the terrible impetuosity of 
his demand. 

“But you cannot refuse to let me see her,” Quen- 
tin said. “I don’t ask to see her alone, Professor 
Arnold. Let her come here and I will speak to her 
with you in the room. Don’t stand between us. I’ve 
been looking for her so long.” 

Professor Arnold paced the room, his eyes on the 
floor. It was easier to think coherently if one did 
not look at Dillon. Youth had such a desperate 
appeal, and the young man disturbed him. He could 
not accept the story without sifting the evidence, and 
as Dillon had been, from his own account, capable 
of deception, how could he tell that the explanation 
was not all of a piece with the rest? 

“Will you give me your word to make no at- 
tempt to see Miss Keith until I have proof, in the 
first place, that you are the man you now profess to 
be, and in the second, that your visit to her would 
be acceptable,” he said, standing by the table. “She 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


273 

has suffered, most unjustly, and I wish to protect 
her from further annoyance. On my part, I will 
promise you to verify your credentials without delay, 
and if Miss Keith feels equal to seeing you, I will 
let you know. Have I your promise?” 

Dillon hesitated for a second, and then got up, 
and held out his hand. “I think that is common jus- 
tice” he said quietly, “and I will give you my word.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


All the afternoon Marion worked at the table with 
Professor Arnold, and, since the secrecy of things is 
inviolable, did not know that Quentin had been sit- 
ting in the same chair, and that his arms had leaned 
heavily on the blotting paper before her. 

She had been refreshed by her walk, and her eyes 
looked brighter, so that Professor Arnold nodded 
appreciatingly, and, fearing to disturb her, held his 
peace. It was only at the end of the day’s work 
that he put down his pen and cleared his throat. 

“Before you went out to-day,” he said, “I asked 
you about that young man who had already been a 
cause of so much trouble to you in your life.” 

Marion winced and put her hands over her face. 
“I think I would rather not speak of him,” she said. 

“Usually,” Professor Arnold went on, “L am in 
the habit of considering myself a good judge of 
character, but I admit myself at fault — at fault. He 
is attractive in appearance.” 

She conjured up a memory of Nesbit’s overblown 
comeliness and coarsely handsome face. “Some 
people might think so,” she said, “but how do you 
know?” She rose quickly from her chair and went 
round the table to where he sat. “He hasn’t been 
here; don’t tell me that, please don’t.” 

“He has been here,” the professor said, “but 1 
told him that you would not see him.” 

274 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 275 

“I cannot,” she spoke violently, “when I do, I 
feel that I could kill either myself or him. Oh, don’t 
let him come back.” 

“There, there,” he patted her shoulders as she 
crouched by his chair. “I tell you that he will not 
trouble you. He gave me his word.” 

“His word!” Marion threw back her head and 
laughed. “What is that worth? Everything he 
says is a lie. I know he will come back, and in the 
end there will be nothing for it but for me to go 
away from you, and hide myself somewhere.” 

Professor Arnold cleaned his glasses with his 
white silk handkerchief. “In spite of all you say, I 
must admit that he impressed me favourably,” he 
said. “There is something attractive there, beyond 
mere good looks, and I return to it — he impressed 
me favourably.” 

Marion rose from her knees and went moodily to 
the window. There was evidently no mercy any- 
where, and she thought of Quentin Dillon, her heart 
strained with anguish and distress. 

“This story of his having personated someone 
else, is admittedly, a very wild one,” the professor 
went on; “I see how ill-judged and inexcusable it is, 
but at the same time he made it evident that he was 
acting’as he did chiefly because of you. Let us be 
just to him.” 

“What story?” she said disdainfully. “I know 
nothing about it, except perhaps that he usually in- 
sisted that he was better than he appeared to be. 
How could you believe in him?” 

“Ah, that is just the point,” Professor Arnold 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


276 

replied. U I did believe. It went against my own 
clear judgment, and made me seem quite foolish to 
myself. He was mixed up with people whom one 
might describe as his partners in crime, but he was 
not of them. He was altogether different. Do not 
let us divest him of any saving grace which there may 
be in the tangle. I think he believes in himself, 
though he may only be having some half-conscious 
dodge to escape from self-judgment.” 

Marion said nothing, but her eyes were contemp- 
tuous. For the first time her faith in Professor Ar- 
nold faltered. 

“He admitted, to use his own words,” Professor 
Arnold went on, “that he had made a confounded 
fool of himself. The penalty was a hard one; give 
him that concession.” 

“You actually believe in him,” she said slowly, 
and Professor Arnold flushed and said nothing. 

“I am not minimising the fact that he behaved 
very badly,” he said lamely. “I declined to let him 
see you, even though he suggested that I should be 
present at the interview, and I told him that you 
would not marry him.” 

Once again Marion laughed. “When I last saw 
him,” she said, “down there in the garden, he told 
me that he did not intend to offer to marry me, again, 
and he hinted . . .” she turned away. “He said 
abominable things of you to me, if you must know 
it.” 

Professor Arnold got up suddenly. “He said 
. . . Do you know what you are saying? Mr. Dil- 
lon said something insulting of you?” 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 277 

She turned back, and in a second the change which 
had come over her was so astonishing that Pro- 
fessor Arnold had difficulty in believing his own 
senses. 

“Mr. Dillon,” she ran to him and caught him 
by the arm. “You did not tell me, you did not say 
that you were speaking of him. Are you sure?” 

“But this is ridiculous,” he said irritably. “I 
have been speaking of him all the time.” 

“And he was here ? He came to find me? And 
the story of his being someone else — oh, please tell 
me it all from the beginning.” 

“If you will give me a moment in which I can 
speak coherently,” Professor Arnold put out pro- 
testing hands. “Mr. Dillon, whom I believed to be 
the man you wished strictly to avoid, came here, and 
I told him that you would not see him. He made 
me a long explanation, and, eventually, giving me 
his word of honour not to attempt to see you, left 
the house.” 

She was leaning against the mantelpiece, her face 
transfigured and her eyes on fire, and Professor 
Arnold got up and took a paper from a drawer. 
“Here is his mother’s address, which he left for 
me, so that she should corroborate his story, but it 
appears to me that you will form your own conclu- 
sions without reference to her.” 

“Where is he now?” Marion asked, and her voice 
was hardly audible. 

Quentin was sitting in the dark coffee-room of 
the small hotel in the High Street of Exwater. It 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


278 

was not a cheerful place at the best of times, and he 
felt hopelessly depressed and baffled. He was in 
the same place with Marion, and at the hour of his 
attainment Professor Arnold had banged a door be- 
tween them, and shut her away from him. He had 
deliberately made it impossible for him to go and 
seek her and get his answer direct from her, and 
like all quick and impulsive natures Quentin suf- 
fered from the violence of reaction. 

Lost in his trouble of mind, and prepared to go 
away once more, to wait until the professor wrote 
to him, Dillon sat with his hands deep in his pockets, 
savagely angry with his fate. It was all his own 
doing, but that did not improve matters in the least. 
The professor, taking upon himself the role of the 
wardei of the gates, had a sword in his hand and 
stood between Dillon and his heart’s desire. 

It was upon this absorption that a messenger came 
to him, carrying a letter, which Dillon took impa- 
tiently, and tearing the envelope open, he read the 
lines. “Please come to the house as soon as you 
conveniently can,” and signed by Professor Arnold. 

He felt as though he had suddenly stepped on to 
firm ground, from a morass, and, snatching up his 
hat, he hurried along the street and found his way 
to the Green Gate. 

The garden, with its suggestion of having waited 
for someone to come and something to happen 
there, greeted him with the mingled scent of early 
lilac blossoms and French honey-suckle, and for a 
second he stood undecided whether to go into the 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


279 

house or not. And then he saw Professor Arnold 
coming towards him. 

“You will find Miss Keith on the terrace walk,” 
he said, and Dillon did not wait for anything further. 

There she stood, the sunlight on her hair, and her 
eyes holding his, as he came to her and took her 
hands. 

“Marion !” He drew her into the shelter of the 
yew hedge and caught her in his arms. 

It was not the cry of his first love for her, but 
the mingled intensity of first love and last, and she 
buried her face on his breast. 

“Oh, how long it has all been,” she said. “How 
long, Quentin.” 

“And you love me ?” he asked. 

“I have known from the beginning that either 
you must love me or I should die,” she said with a 
sobbing laugh. “I have tried everything I could to 
make myself forget — and nothing was any use”; 
she drew away a little, holding him fiercely with her 
small hands. “Even when I believed that you were 
married, and that you were a most disreputable per- 
son, Quentin, I went on caring.” 

“You are a wicked woman,” he kissed her as he 
spoke, “but it is a comfort to think that you are.” 

“I have felt dead to everything,” she hid her face 
again on his shoulder. “Ah ! How did I ever bear 
the agony of tearing myself away from you.” 

He drew her to a seat, and they sat together hand 
in hand. She tried to tell him what had happened 
that night at Rosemary Villa. But conversation 
was not easy, for it had to rush forward to the fu- 


28 o 


A FOOL’S ERRAND 


ture, even while they spoke of the past, and the deep 
abyss of misery was now put behind them both, 
though the darkness of it all was still close enough 
to make the glory more splendid to their eyes. 

Spring was around them with its unfolding prom- 
ise of flowers and leaves, and it was as though it had 
come into perfect manifestation in their own hearts, 
laying tender hands upon two lovers, so that they 
forgot everything in one long kiss, while the sunset 
flamed and died, and the darkness began to fall. 
Lifting up her face in his hands, Quentin raised his 
own eyes to the sky and the words which had once 
been so hopeless came back to him with a new 
meaning: 

“Another night, by Allah’s will.” 


THE END 





